Katra
by Tori Angeli
Summary: Spock Prime is killed before his people are settled, and the man who could not save him finds himself repeating a future he will never experience. Now McCoy must lay the dead to rest before he crumples under a burden humans were not built to bear.
1. Chapter 1

_Oh dear god. Another one._

Granted, Dr. Leonard H. McCoy had no evidence against a bizarre coincidence. Both Vulcans happened to be named Spock. One was Commander Spock, and the other was Ambassador Spock. _Couldn't they at least pick out nicknames? This is going to be damned confusing._

"Doctor?"

"I know, I know," McCoy grunted to the pregnant Vulcan whose belly he was scanning. "You're fine. The baby's fine. You're clear. Next patient."

"You were muttering under your breath," the Vulcan woman told him.

"Sorry ma'am. Wasn't about you."

The Vulcan nodded and hefted to her feet while another took her place, this one only a few months along. McCoy supposed, no, _knew_, that these women were nothing short of a miracle. There was no lack of appreciation for them or the children they carried. They were beautiful women who bore the lives of the future, but if he had his way, they'd all be staying on Earth until they gave birth. He'd had this conversation with Ambassador Spock earlier. That had gone so well, too.

"_Dammit, man, we're talking about the future of Vulcan, here!"_

"_Please be respectful, Doctor."_

"_Dammit, Ambassador, we're talking about the future of Vulcan, here!"_

"_I, of all people, should understand that, Doctor."_

"_Leave them here, and there'll be no risk to them. Take them on a shuttle to France and you've got a problem. Rocket them into space and you're running the risk of miscarriage and premature birth."_

"_Is your field of expertise Vulcan obstetrics, Doctor?"_

"_You put me in charge of these people. You better be damn ready to listen to my opinion!"_

"_You took the course on cultural diversity in the Academy, correct?"_

"_How did you know?"_

"_You must have mentioned it. If you'll recall, much of Vulcan mysticism relies on their homeland. We are born and laid to rest on our own soil. It is vitally important to these women that they have the chance to give birth at home."_

Which had been the end of it. McCoy had taken his leave, and he might have imagined the heavy sigh that resounded from behind him as he bade the ambassador farewell. _A hundred fifty years old or not, you're still a pointy-eared asshole. Out of all Starfleet, you could've picked any of the best doctors to commandeer for your little puddle-hop, but you had to drag me out for it._

Now he was at this assembly line of pregnant Vulcan women, checking each before they went on board the passenger ship to transport them to their new colony. The new planet was livable, but not very much like Vulcan. It was one of those rogue planets nobody had bothered to claim yet. McCoy had heard it was humid and swamplike, the exact opposite of Vulcan's all-over high-gravity desert. But a planet was a planet, he supposed. At least it wasn't too far from where Vulcan had been. _They'll already know their way home_, he thought wryly.

Fortunately, the ambassador had hired an obstetrician to monitor the women while they were on board, but he hadn't bothered to show up on time. That left McCoy, temporary Chief Medical Officer of this voyage, to do the dirty work until he showed up. At least humanity had passed the days of using their fingers to do a scanner's job. For that, McCoy thanked all the med techs who came before his time. _God love 'em all._

"Bones!"

_And God love Jim Kirk._ McCoy glanced up at the pest that had lit near his shoulder. "What?"

Kirk had the most annoying habit of jostling him by hitting him hard on his shoulder. Maybe best friends were entitled to do that to each other. In that case, McCoy would have to start getting back at him one of these days. "Not fair of them to take you from us," said Kirk. "I'm stuck with Van Skoy."

McCoy swore under his breath.

"You got it."

"To hell with 'em, Jim, I'll stow away aboard the _Enterprise_ if I have to."

"For once," Kirk said with a smirk, "_I_ am going to advise _you_ not to mutiny. Besides, we'll only be a few kilometers away. You'll be flanked by the _Enterprise_ and the _Crosswinds_ all the way there."

"I never felt safer," McCoy replied acidly.

Kirk gave McCoy another rough pat on the shoulder. "Hey. This'll be a milk run. The only reason the Federation's top two warships are escorting you is because the cargo is endangered."

"You're all set," McCoy barked, sending the last pregnant woman into the ship. "And Jim, next time you call a bunch of refugees cargo, try not to say it in front of their pregnant women."

Kirk gave a snarky reply and a grin, hit him again, and went to attend to his own duties. That was his relationship with Jim Kirk. It wasn't precisely big-brother-little-brother, but McCoy did get the impression that he was constantly looking out for the man. Of course, Kirk would then surprise him by turning around and looking out for himself, or even more, looking out for McCoy. McCoy did not need a little upstart trying to protect him. On the other hand, he had survived their last (and first) Big Dangerous Mission. He supposed he owed Kirk for that. Saving humanity and all.

"Doctor."

Now that was a voice McCoy did not want to hear. He had just stood up and was placing his folding chair back on a rack when those sickeningly neutral tones set his hair on end. Hearing that voice meant he was in for an interminable show of infuriating arrogance. McCoy even went so far as to regret standing up for Spock against Kirk (_One time!_). He was convinced it had made the Vulcan even more intolerable. Worse, it may have given Spock the idea that McCoy could be pushed around. Above all, as much as he tried to be tolerant and understanding, McCoy couldn't bring himself to shake his inherent disapproval of the very concept of wiping away one's emotions. It was simply wrong. Emotions are a man's conscience. If he can't feel for the people he's taking care of, he has no business taking care of them._ Cold-hearted green-blooded bastard._

"Doctor. The ambassador wishes to know if the patients are all aboard."

By "patients" he meant "pregnant women and geriatrics." "Yes," McCoy replied professionally. A professional reply was the best he could do for Spock. "They're on there."

Spock gave a curt nod. "Then you had best board the ship yourself. The longer you are not there, the greater risk to your patients."

_Damn you, you smug little Vulcan. I just sent the last one on three seconds ago, and you know it._ But McCoy was in no mood for a confrontation at the moment—not with this Spock, anyway. "Then I won't take up any more of your precious time, Commander," he said smoothly. "Your ship needs its first officer."

Spock stiffened. Without waiting for a response, McCoy hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and boarded the passenger ship himself. It was the last time he would see Spock before his universe tilted.

* * *

"McCoy to Bridge! What the hell is going on?"

Captain Ponzioni's haggard face answered the comm. "Romulans, doctor. Apparently they think we've intruded on their territory. You will have an influx of patients. Ponzioni out."

_Master of the Obvious._ McCoy had already been wrist-deep in an emergency surgery when he had contacted the captain, and at least twenty others with minor wounds had flooded his Sickbay. _What the hell are the Romulans doing here? They're shacked up in the Beta Quadrant, for god's sake! Jim wouldn't keep me in the dark when something like this's happening._

"Doctor McCoy! It's the ambassador!"

_Not now. Please not now._ But there was no choice. McCoy left the surgery-in-progress to another doctor and quickly sterilized his hands. A fresh pair of gloves were thrown at him, and he found himself ushered to a new bedside, staring down into the bloodied face of Ambassador Spock.

"It is...too late, old friend," whispered the Vulcan. His eyes were wide. He was clearly in shock.

McCoy ignored him. He'd been called many strange things by patients before. He scanned the ambassador, detachedly reviewing the shrapnel protruding from his torso. _He's not going to live._ "Is he medicated?" he asked a nearby nurse as he yanked his gloves on.

"No sir."

"Then give him an analgesic, dammit! The man has holes in his chest!" _The man is dying. The ambassador taking care of these people is dying._

"Yes, sir."

"Doctor!" gasped Ambassador Spock.

McCoy looked down into the rapidly-clouding eyes of the Vulcan. "Let me do my job," he said gruffly. "We'll take care of you." _We'll make you comfortable, anyway._

Spock shook his head. "No time, my friend. No time."

A hand sticky with bright green snatched McCoy's sleeve and drew him in. McCoy was halfway to extracting his clothing from the dying man's grip when Spock's other hand reached for him, shoving his fingertips into receptive tissues around one side of his face. The doctor suddenly felt very, very strange. The chaos of the sickbay dimmed and slowed to a crawl, like someone had adjusted the light and speed levels on the movie of his life. He heard—or something like it—the voice of the ambassador.

"You will never remember being entrusted with everything of mine that is not physical. Not from the Spock you know. Once I chose you out of necessity, as I do now. If it were not necessity, I believe I would still choose you, who I trusted before."

"What?" McCoy wasn't sure if he'd actually spoken.

Spock's fingers dug harder into McCoy's face. "_Remember_."

"Doctor?"

McCoy blinked.

"Doctor. He's gone. You have other patients."

McCoy stared down at the ambassador's body. Around him, the dull buzz of the red alert alarm penetrated his brain. Ambassador Spock was dead. The doctor wet his lips, but couldn't remember what he should do next. With every flash of the red lights, his head pounded. He couldn't think. He yanked the glove off his left hand and touched his cheek, feeling the tiny smears of green blood the ambassador had left.

"Doctor? Are you okay?"

"Yes." It was the first word that came to mind. McCoy was always okay. He always had to be okay. Blearily, he pulled his other glove off and exchanged the tainted gloves for new ones. A gentle hand lay on his shoulder, and he looked into the eyes of one of the nurses.

"The ambassador was their hope," she said softly.

McCoy nodded, but had a vague feeling that had nothing to do with his sudden sense of shock. New gloves were provided, and he was ushered back to the surgery he had been performing before. One of the nurses handed him a pair of forceps, and he had no idea what to do with them. The unconscious body lay open before him, and he found himself shoving the forceps back into the nurse's hand.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I can't do this."

The nurse stared at him with wide eyes. "Doctor?"

"I'm not performing a botched surgery. I gotta..." Suddenly the world blurred around him, and he was face-down on the floor with a bleeding lip. He felt hands turning him, saw the ceiling, and spiraled into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

McCoy hated the glaring fluorescent lights of Starfleet infirmaries. He had preferred incandescent lights in his small practice back on Earth for that very reason. Somehow, he hadn't grown used to the brighter lights the way he'd conquered, or at least learned to live with, his aviaphobia. He hated the way they pierced through his eyelids when they were closed, bright white through black, inescapable. When he opened his eyes, it only got worse.

"Hey," Jim Kirk's voice said softly.

McCoy squinted at the lights, then glanced at the figure sitting by his bed. Kirk gave him one of his tight friendly-but-insincere smiles. "What happened?" croaked McCoy.

"You're on the Enterprise now."

"I know I'm on the Enterprise. What happened?"

Kirk hissed through his teeth. "Romulans decided they wanted an outpost in the Alpha Quadrant and didn't give a shit if they took a planet someone else had legal claims to. The ambassador spent months getting the Federation bureaucrats to agree to terms on giving it over for this. Now we have to start the process over."

McCoy's head was throbbing. He raised a hand to his face to shield his eyes from the lights. "What happened to the Vulcans?"

"Most of the casualties were minor. Four dead. Scotty's a genius, by the way. He beamed the passengers of the _Titan_ onto the _Enterprise_ and _Crosswinds—_all ten thousand of 'em in three shots. We weren't exactly crazy about standing against the entire Romulan armada, so we performed a tactical retreat back to Earth. It'll take more than the Enterprise to deal with the trespassers. You feeling okay?"

"I feel like hell. Got the worst goddamn headache..." McCoy groaned suddenly, remembering what had happened aboard the _Titan_. "Jim. We lost the ambassador."

Kirk nodded. "I know. Scotty managed to retrieve his body before the ship exploded." He cleared his throat. "You remember what happened, Bones?"

McCoy knew what Kirk was referring to, and didn't exactly want to discuss the particulars. Randomly fainting on duty was not a sign of reliability, especially when the fainting officer was, embarrassingly enough, generally expected to treat the patients rather than be one himself. "Not a lot. I remember the ambassador dying, but not much after. Glad I didn't have my hands in the man's guts when it happened."

Another nod. "Only stroke of luck we've had so far. Dr. Van Skoy can't find anything wrong with you, so he's chucking it up to exhaustion. You're ordered to take the next three days off."

No. McCoy was suddenly sitting up, ignoring the spin of the room around him. "You can't order me to take time off," he snarled. "I'll say you're unfit for duty. I'll say--"

"You're not the chief medical officer right now," Kirk said with a smirk. "Van Skoy is. Besides, you look like pure hell. Who d'you think everyone's gonna believe?"

McCoy slammed back against the bed, defeated. "Damn you, Jim Kirk. I'll destroy you."

"You're welcome!" Kirk said cheerily. "Oh—and I suggest you spend your time off planetside. You haven't seen your baby girl in a while, have you?"

"Joanna's walled up in The Bitch's house, thanks for remindin' me," spat McCoy. "She doesn't let me into her house. I told you she took the whole damn planet."

"Fine," Kirk chirruped, but McCoy could see him wilt slightly. "If you wanna spend your off-time here, you can do that. By the time you're back on your feet, the Federation might have finished bitching about whose fault it is that no one saw this coming."

"If we're lucky," growled McCoy. "By your leave, _Captain_, I'd prefer to spend my prison sentence in my own quarters."

Kirk's eyes gleamed, and McCoy immediately knew he'd made a mistake. "Now that's more like it, Bones! Show some respect for the captain here."

"Damn you."

"We'll work on it." Kirk flung a hand toward the door. "You're free to go, as long as you're up to walking."

McCoy was not sure if he was up to walking. Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position, remaining that way until the subsequent wave of dizziness passed. Cautiously, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Kirk watched him with more open anxiety than he probably intended. McCoy could meet his eyes only briefly. With a deep breath, he stood up. The ground was relatively steady under his feet now, but he stumbled slightly when he took a step to the door. Before he could react, an arm slid under his and across his back, and Jim Kirk was at his side, supporting him.

"I gotcha," Kirk said softly.

McCoy nodded haggardly, accepting but not encouraging the help. It was all one could do when Jim Kirk decided to be a humanitarian.

* * *

Uhura would have loved to see Vulcan in person. The way Spock described it, it sounded like it would have been somewhat akin to Africa—drier, perhaps, and with thinner air, but still with that oppressive heat she loved and loathed, and those perfect expanses of bare earth. She had never asked him if it ever rained on Vulcan, and if it was like the rains in Africa which caused the dirt to become soil, the dust to settle, the bushes to green, and the entire world to spring to colorful life as long-dead seeds burst into blooming grass and wildflowers. It wasn't likely she would get a chance to ask him soon.

Right now he was sitting across from her at the dinner table, fork lying undisturbed by his plate, clasped hands pressed to his lips as though he were allowing his energy to flow from his body to his hands to be devoured again by his mouth, contained, sufficient. His eyes stared somewhere beyond the surface of the table, beyond the floor, beyond space and into something Uhura wouldn't be able to define if she hadn't seen with her own eyes what he had been through in a few short months.

"Does it bother you?"

He looked up at her question, breaking his thoughtful pose. "Does what bother me?"

Uhura stirred the noodles in her bowl with her chopsticks. "You know what I'm talking about."

"On the contrary, there are any number of things to which you could be referring." Fantastic. Now he'd gotten started. "Many things have happened recently which most would consider to be disturbing, not the least of which I have already expressed to be upsetting. As I am unable to read your mind without an inconsiderate and unnecessary invasion of your privacy, my reply to you is no, I do not."

Uhura looked up at him through her eyelashes, lips tightening into a thin line. Spock glanced at her briefly, then hastily picked up his fork. "However," he continued more quickly than he probably intended, "I may logically deduce, based on recent events, that you are referring either to the Romulan invasion of the new colony or the death of the ambassador. You may even be referring to both. In which case, my feelings are precisely the things which matter least at the moment. With the ambassador gone," here there was a microscopic hesitation, and Uhura had a sense of tragic reverence from it, "I may be required to resign and assist in the efforts to which he devoted himself. If he had left some indication as to any further or alternate plans, it would certainly have made such a decision easier."

So the other Spock's death did bother him. Uhura picked up a few noodles with her chopsticks and slurped them into her mouth. After a few seconds of chewing and swallowing, she said, "Have they looked through his personal logs?"

"The ambassador did not keep confidential information in his logs," Spock said immediately. "They are too easily accessed. Information regarding a new colony, should it fall into Klingon or Romulan hands, could be used to stage an attack much like the one we witnessed yesterday."

"Logs are pretty secure," Uhura mentioned, but didn't press the issue. Considering Spock was talking about an older version of himself, she was fairly sure his assumption would be accurate, and Spock was always a tad paranoid with his personal information. "Well, since he's you, what would you do?"

"He is an older, more knowledgeable and experienced me. I cannot begin to compare to him in that regard."

A raise of Uhura's eyebrows was her way of telling him precisely what she thought of that statement. "He came up with it. He is you. Therefore, you can come up with it." She knew how to speak his language.

"One planet which was suggested as a potential colony was rejected by the ambassador because it would become a vital bargaining chip in a future Cardassian engagement. He simply…knows things I do not."

Uhura put her chopsticks down and rested her cheek against her fist, watching him with her eyes half-lidded. "Are you ever going to eat?"

Spock glanced at her sharply, then grabbed his fork, stabbed a water chestnut, and placed it politely into his mouth. After chewing and swallowing, he said, "Everything that was the ambassador is gone. Vulcan has lost itself a second time, in his death."

"If I were someone, I might have to sit on my hands to keep from going after Romulus." Uhura filled a spoon with egg drop soup and sipped it quietly.

"We are not precisely friends," acknowledged Spock, the line of his shoulders tensing almost invisibly. "However, blame is irrelevant. There are many ways in which things went wrong in order to create this series of events. For example, had the ambassador chosen more warships, or even different ones, we may have been able to predict the attack or retreat with greater success. Had he chosen a different medical staff, perhaps the response time would have varied enough to keep him alive."

Uhura set her spoon down quickly. "I know you didn't just insult the Enterprise, Dr. McCoy, and your future self's judgment in one breath," she said dangerously.

"You are correct," Spock said with that face that looked like a smirk without actually being one. "I am insulting no one. I am merely pointing out that any number of variables could have created an outcome that would be either more desirable or less."

Uhura rolled her eyes and took a swallow from her glass of water. "If Dr. McCoy had died yesterday, you'd have swallowed what you said just now, and you know it."

"I was not aware the doctor had had a brush with death," Spock said with the barest breath of irony.

Had he really not heard? "Well, he passed out during the attack. Spent some time in Sickbay. That's as far as I've heard." She glanced at him.

Spock's left eyebrow shot up, but he did not look up from his food. "Fascinating. Was this before or after the ambassador's death?"

"I didn't hear."

Only a Vulcan could frown without moving his face. Spock brought his glass to his lips and paused there, staring past space again. There he froze for a moment, and Uhura watched him intently, trying to puzzle out his unusual reaction. She gave up when he broke his pose and took a sip of water. "Fascinating," he repeated, "but unlikely."

Oh, there was no way he was leaving it there. "What?" she prodded him.

"I will have to wait and find out for certain. Then, I will be able to explain." Without further talk, he shoveled a forkful of stir-fried noodles into his mouth. Uhura, dissatisfied, merely nodded, accepting his conclusion. They spent the rest of their meal in silence.

* * *

"Welcome to prison," Kirk announced when the door to McCoy's room hissed open. McCoy blew out his breath and shrugged off his friend's help, stumbling to the edge of his bed and sitting down by himself. Kirk tried not to laugh as his friend attacked his boots with a ferocity normally reserved for tearing a cork out of a bottle of whiskey. Boots off, McCoy ripped his socks from his feet and gave sigh of relief.

"You gonna be okay?" Kirk asked, fighting to maintain a straight face. His eyebrows felt too far up on his forehead to count as a straight face, unfortunately.

"You're laughing at me," said McCoy, sliding him a glare.

Kirk shrugged helplessly. "It's just…your boots, Bones. What did they ever do to you?"

"Go away."

Kirk finally grinned. "All right. But seriously. Let me know if you need anything."

"Take me home."

The grin evaporated from Kirk's face. "Wha—Bones, I thought you didn't wanna go planetside."

McCoy cast him a _you're a whackbag_ look. "Of course I don't wanna go planetside. What'd I tell you five minutes ago?"

Kirk's mouth quirked in an uncertain smile, and he meandered forward a step. "You said you wanted me to take you home. Just now."

"I did not."

"Um. Yeah you did."

"Augh. Jim. Why the hell would I say that? Where would I go back to?" Bones was scowling at him expertly, his eyes narrow but hiding nothing. It was rather unnerving at times to be reminded of Bones' complete and unabashed honesty. It normally revealed itself in the form of brash opinions about you and the state of your posture, but it swung both ways—he did not hold back, and he did not lie, not about you or about himself.

Kirk's eyes ticked to the side, then back to his friend, mouth open to reply. Arguing was pointless, though, and Bones needed sleep. "Never mind." With a tight smile, he tossed off a playful salute. "Sleep well."

As he slid out the door, McCoy rolled his eyes.

* * *

McCoy did not sleep well. After drifting in and out of tense, restless slumber, he crawled out of bed and threw up into the toilet. His head was pounding and he felt like he was treading water. Once he was on his feet, he downed two glasses of water and brought a cup of orange juice, seasoned with a pinch of salt for water retention, to his night stand. He suspected he hadn't had much to drink in the last day or so, and dehydration would explain his symptoms. It did not, however, explain why he was not thirsty.

The headache did not get better even after the orange juice was gone. He tried another glass of water, and after that, had to go relieve himself. After four glasses of water and two of barely-salted orange juice, it had grown to become a raging migraine. Blind with pain and frustration, he snatched a cold compress from his freezer and went back to bed.

Once horizontal, he pressed the cold compress hard against his forehead, as if he could freeze out more than the headache. Thousands of thoughts crowded his head and swelled like balloons, pushing up against the edges of his mind, stretching until it felt like his head would explode from the pressure. Particularly unhelpful was the song that was blazing incessantly through his mind, looping again and again like a piece of gum stuck to a conveyor belt.

_Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream._

_Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream._

Where the hell was the song coming from? He hadn't even heard it since he was a kid camping out with his father. He tried to conjure the image again—the golden-orange flames snapping at the air, the brisk, heady aroma of wood smoke, and the plinking of his father's guitar. The sound of the guitar changed, became some instrument far more ancient, alien, and yet familiar as the view from his old house. He fell back into a memory like he was tumbling against a feather bed and drawing its silken sheets up around his face.

_Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream._

_Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…life…_

_C'mon. Spock. Why didn't you jump in? _ The speaker was a silvery-haired doppelganger of Jim Kirk, face hovering just beyond a crackling campfire.

_I was trying to comprehend the meaning of the words_, replied McCoy.

Then he was looking into his own eyes, only they were older and lined with years worth of scowls and lopsided grins. _It's a song, you green-blooded...Vulcan_, he heard himself slur drunkenly. _You sing it. The words aren't important. What's important is that you have a good time singing it__._

_Oh, I am sorry, Doctor,_ McCoy said to his older self. _Were we having a good time?_

His older self scoffed at him. _God,_ _I liked him better before he died.

* * *

_

A/N:As most of you know, the dialogue in the last scene comes from Star Trek V: The Final Frontier. It is a flashback, and not my own brainchild. In other words, I do not own it. Or really, anything else here.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days of so-called vacation, and McCoy was beginning to miss his cramped little sickbay, which was unusual. Once upon a time, he'd had his own private practice and an affiliation-not-membership with one of the most state-of-the-art hospitals in the South. As much luxury as he had in an infirmary with Starfleet-funded medical technology so advanced it was practically from the future, it was still barely big enough to breathe in. He'd rather have played with his new hi-tech toys back on Earth.

After three days, his quarters felt a lot smaller than the infirmary. Since he was suffering from no more than bizarre nightmares and the occasional headache, he decided the boredom was doing more harm than good and showed up to work.

Dr. Van Skoy barely acknowledged him when he walked through the door. "Did you need something, Doctor?" he asked without looking up from some gene scan he was going over.

McCoy could have decked him. Instead, he tightened his lips. "Yeah. I need you to get the hell out of my sickbay."

Van Skoy tensed, apparently not used to being treated as anything other than the top dog. Or a minor deity. That was the issue with doctors like Van Skoy—just because they saved lives, they figured could treat people however they damn well pleased. Some people might describe McCoy as an asshole, but at least he didn't act that way out of some overblown sense of godhood. "It's good to know you're feeling up to the challenge," Van Skoy said mildly, "but you're on medical leave."

"Not anymore, I'm not."

"Oh, did that end today?" Van Skoy paused. "I guess I'd better extend it. Take another three days."

McCoy's eyes almost fell out of his head. "What? On what grounds?"

"On what grounds," Van Skoy repeated thoughtfully, turning his swivel chair from his work to face McCoy and letting his eyes drift up to the ceiling. He began to tick things off on his fingers. "One, needlessly irascible behavior. You're still clearly exhausted."

"I'm always like that!"

Van Skoy ignored him. "Two, the fight you started in the mess hall yesterday, a.k.a erratic behavior."

"What f—I just told him to get his hand off me!"

"Three, you look—and this is a legitimate medical term—like seven-layer hell dip."

"I'm _fine_."

"You are taking the next three days off," Van Skoy repeated, returning to his work.

McCoy couldn't believe what he was hearing. This bald little diva was actually trying to wring him out for a few extra days in his position. "I'll appeal your decision," he snarled.

"Go right ahead," Van Skoy said dismissively. "I have to get back to work."

And that was it. Three more days of doing absolutely nothing. The rest was going to kill him. McCoy stood at Van Skoy's elbow, fuming, mind racing and grasping for some insult or comeback that would _really _get him. Instead of speaking, he reached out and clamped three fingers around the flesh of the juncture of Van Skoy's neck and shoulder.

"Hey!" yelped Van Skoy, turning and swatting angrily at McCoy's hand. "What the hell?"

McCoy released him, puzzled that it didn't work, then puzzled that he'd tried the maneuver in the first place. Suddenly feeling very foolish, he awkwardly placed the offending hand on the back of his own neck and rubbed, having nothing else to do with it.

Apparently that didn't convince Van Skoy, who pressed a button on his console and said, "Van Skoy to Security. I need a team down here stat."

"We're on our way," came a voice.

It took hearing both the command and the reply before the sheer magnitude of Van Skoy's jackassery hit him. "Are you out of your mind?" McCoy hissed.

"You are clearly unfit for duty," said Van Skoy. "I am relieving you indefinitely. If you return to your quarters before security arrives, I will overlook your aggressive behavior."

"Aggressive behavior my ass!" spat McCoy. "I'll have you stripped of your rank! Between us, who d'you think the captain'll believe?"

Van Skoy pressed his lips together in a tight line. "Get out of my sickbay, McCoy."

"Your sickbay? _Your _sickb--" A sudden wave of dizziness crashed over him, and he sat down hard on the nearest bed. His muscles began to unwind, like several shots of Jack had hit him all at once.

"My sickbay, while you're off-d--" Van Skoy glanced back at him and choked, rocketing to his feet and snatching a tricorder. "My god, Doctor, are you okay?"

McCoy opened his mouth but said nothing as Van Skoy scanned him. The door hissed open, and a few vague red shapes appeared. Van Skoy's words became intelligible. Then there were those hated fluorescent lights again as a few blue shapes laid him back on the bed. All throughout was a strange sensation, like the tickling of someone whispering in his ear, unsure if he should laugh or scratch or provide some reaction that was equally idiosyncratic. He became aware that he was muttering words, but they didn't seem to make as much sense to Van Skoy as they did to him. _Let me go. I have to go. I have to go home. Don't you understand? Look at me. Look at me!_

"Let me go!"

He didn't think about what happened. The cloud of nurses and doctors around him exploded, everyone falling back as he jerked off the table and stumbled over the floor. There were shouts behind him, and fingers snatching at him, but he shook them off like water. They would do nothing for him. If they would not listen, he would plot the course himself if he had to. He was going home.

* * *

They were sitting on the bridge like grade school kids on a bus, waiting for orders. Sulu was spending the time leaning as far back in his chair as he could and hanging his head over the back, staring up at the ceiling. Not particularly thrilled with being pulled from their five-year mission in the first place, he was even less thrilled with being tucked into a hole just in case they were needed in a confrontation that may or may not happen. Hikaru Sulu was a quiet man who liked action. Fancy that. Chekov was beside him, amusing himself by plotting out a course to Neverland. Well, if anyone could do it, it would be wonder-boy. The Russian genius had told him that after Neverland, he was going to work on Middle-Earth. Sulu had no idea what he was talking about.

Finally, _finally,_ the doors to Kirk's ready-room slid open and the man himself came out. Sulu immediately straightened up, and the annoying little blips coming from Chekov's console stopped. Silence fell over the bridge. After half a second, Kirk gave them a tight little smile, and Sulu knew that all hope was lost. If Kirk had given a more open smile, it would have meant the continuation of their mission. The apologetic smile meant they were being delayed. More.

Kirk didn't waste time with preambles, which was something Sulu liked about him. "As much as I'd like to disappear for the next five years," he said, "Starfleet thinks we're needed here the most."

Sulu noted the words _Starfleet thinks._ He also agreed. As much as he wanted to give the Romulans the what-for, most of the dealings with them would be long, drawn-out diplomacy through which the Federation would inevitably end up buying back the planet they owned to begin with. Taming a heavy sigh down to an inaudible exhalation, he turned to look at Chekov. Chekov gave a shrug that Sulu read as _At least we get a little more time off._ Then the boy's face changed.

So many people came and went from the bridge that Sulu took no notice whenever the doors hissed open. He did take notice, however, that when Chekov's eyes flickered to somewhere behind him, the shuffling breeze of sounds around him—feet shifting, chairs swiveling, buttons ticking, confirmations uttered—came to a complete and deafening halt. _Okay, I'll take the bait. _ Sulu turned to peer at the door.

It was Dr. McCoy, white as a corpse and wielding two phasers.

_Holy--_

Kirk rocketed to his feet, no faster than a few other crew members drew their phasers and someone muttered for security to come to the bridge. McCoy held both phasers steady, his shoulders squared, his eyes wide, his face passive. When Kirk got up, the doctor pointed his phasers at him. Sulu remained frozen, not quite sure if this was a prank with potential for court-martial or a crime with the inevitability of court-martial, neither of which the doctor seemed capable of.

"Bones," Kirk said neutrally. "What's going on?"

_Deadpan_ did not begin to describe the wide-eyed blankness of the doctor's face. Solemn and almost robotic, he barely looked like the same person. "We are going to Vulcan," he said hoarsely, a slight tremor in his voice the only indicator of emotion.

The mood of the room shifted slightly. Sulu's eyes darted from the captain to the doctor and back again. _Is he serious? _Kirk raised both hands into the air in a gesture of cooperation. "Bones," he said again. "Vulcan is gone, remember? If we went back there, we'd get pulled into a black hole. It's not there anymore."

A slight frown crossed McCoy's face, then one eyebrow lifted. "It…cannot be gone. I must go there. I must return to Mt. Seleya."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sulu saw Spock rise from his position. Wetting his lips, Kirk took a step to the side, and McCoy followed him with his gaze. "Bones, you were there. Hell, you were there when we tried to get the refugees to the new colony."

"Was I?" McCoy's eyebrow lowered again, then the tense blankness of his face softened. His face became somewhat recognizable again. Both brows furrowed slightly, then his lips tightened and his eyes grew a fraction wider, as if he were watching something he couldn't look away from. Spock moved more hastily toward him, sliding like a lynx around the edge of the room. Sulu dared a glance back at Chekov. The navigator seemed less surprised than Sulu, as if he'd been expecting the doctor to snap any day now. The pilot's stomach churned as he looked back at McCoy.

Kirk kept talking. "Yeah, when we were attacked. Two out of seventeen pregnant Vulcans miscarried and another went into premature labor. Ambassador Spock was killed in action." The captain's tone shifted. "What happened after that?"

Confusion drew McCoy's face like the drawstring of a purse. In that instant, Spock struck. A swift blow between his shoulder blades startled McCoy into releasing the phasers. One fired when it hit the floor, and all Sulu saw was a blinding flash of color before he hit the floor. Shakily, he rose to his hands and knees, for an instant not sure if he was still alive. Two deep breaths, and he glanced over to Chekov. His friend was slumped against his console, motionless. Sulu's heart leapt into his mouth. He scrambled to his feet. Spock shoved McCoy against the wall between Uhura's console and the turbolift doors, pinning him effortlessly as the doors swept open and a security team piled out.

Sulu's fingers found Chekov's steady pulse, and he could breathe again. "He's alive," he gasped. _He's just stunned. Thank god._

"Just a moment," Spock told the security team, arranging his fingers around one side of McCoy's face. McCoy gazed piercingly at him, eyebrows quirking upward slightly as though he was intrigued.

"Spock?" Kirk questioned breathlessly, his voice rising in something that wasn't quite alarm.

"In a moment, Captain," Spock said without looking away from McCoy's face. "Doctor." Then, after a moment of hesitation, he murmured, "Ambassador."

_What?_

"I wish to perform a mind-meld. It will do you no harm, and I will look at nothing which does not pertain to your current status. Open your mind."

McCoy flinched slightly, as if the feeling of the Vulcan's fingers was putting him off. Suddenly, without warning, he shoved hard at Spock's chest, jostling but not offsetting the Vulcan. "LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE, YOU GREEN-BLOODED PARASITE!" he shouted, voice pitched at a near-scream, face flaring into a blood-red. "My god, what were you..." His face suddenly relaxed and his eyes briefly lost focus. The blood drained from his face. "What the hell is going on, Jim?" he asked breathlessly.

Kirk's expression changed, a subtle gleam of empathetic pain shifting into his eyes. "Bones?"

The doctor's eyes widened further and darted about. "I...I don't..." His knees buckled, abruptly dropping him into the waiting arms of the security team.

"Hold it!" Kirk barked before they could secure him. "He needs sickbay, not the brig. Take him there." Without waiting for his orders to be obeyed, he latched on to the nearest available console, which happened to be Sulu's. Sulu leapt out of the way of the captain as Kirk commandeered his chair. "Dr. Van Skoy!"

The doctor's perpetually-irritated voice answered. "Yes, Captain?"

"You're free to go back to the _Eldridge_. Dr. McCoy will be retaking his position." Kirk glanced back over his shoulder at Spock, who raised an eyebrow briefly, then nodded.

After a pause, Dr. Van Skoy's voice came again, higher in pitch this time. "With all due respect, sir," he said, delivering the get-out-of-jail-free card of all known forms of military, "Dr. McCoy is nuts."

"He's one of the best doctors in the fleet," Kirk said impatiently. "He'll handle his own care better than anyone. Besides, he won't let anyone else take care of him anyway. There's no point in fighting him. We'll make him assign his own replacement if it comes to it. Kirk out."

"Excuse me, Captain," Spock said respectfully from behind Kirk, nearly making Sulu jump out of his skin. "I must confer with my father. When we have a conclusion, we may need to meet with you on the matter. I believe I know what has happened to Dr. McCoy."

"What's happened to him?" Kirk wrinkled his nose. Not _what's wrong with him,_ but _what's happened to him,_ Sulu noted.

"Yes," confirmed Spock, "but I must not say any more. I will meet with you as soon as possible. Until then, if I may be permitted—"

"Go ahead," Kirk said immediately. "The sooner we know what's going on…yeah." He gave a brief nod. Spock nodded back and followed the security team through the turbolift doors.

Swallowing hard, Sulu turned to look back at Chekov as the ensign groaned and muttered some curse in Russian. This time, when the turbolift doors opened again, he snapped around to see what was happening. All he caught was the tail end of the captain's departure into the lift. The bridge went quiet. After a moment, people began work again at their stations. Things almost looked normal.

_Then what the hell just happened?_


	4. Chapter 4

Spock did not want to go into the infirmary. Therefore, he did not. He did not understand his father's underhanded suggestions that he go to the infirmary to gather the captain himself. Why should he waste time walking when he could call Kirk from his quarters and meet him directly in his ready room? Sarek may believe there to be some symbolism in coming face-to-face with oneself, but at the moment, it was entirely unnecessary. Besides, Spock simply had no wish to do so. It was bad enough to call sickbay knowing what was happening in there. Seeing oneself in the mirror seemed incomparable to seeing oneself as a demon on an infirmary bed.

"Spock to Captain Kirk."

The first voice to come through the console was not Kirk's. "LET ME OUTTA HERE! I HAVE TO GO HOME!"

Spock managed not to flinch.

"Kirk here. I hope you've got some explanation, Spock."

"_PLEASE_ LET ME GO! I'VE GOT—"

"My father and I have reached a conclusion," Spock said evenly, if a bit loudly, trying to ignore the fact that the doctor had said the word _please_ for perhaps the first time since the Vulcan had known him. "If you would meet us in your ready room, we agree to explain."

"_Agree_ to—never mind. I'll be up there. Kirk out."

Spock glanced up at Sarek, who moved toward him. "This is a trial, Spock," he said in that tone of deep calm that could convince a wild Klingon _targ_ to hear reason. "Like any other trial, it is finite."

"Perhaps," Spock said quietly. In the deepest recesses of his emotional genotype, he whispered, _But I want to go home, too.

* * *

_

The doors to Kirk's ready room slid closed with a hiss as the three men entered. Kirk whirled to face Spock and Sarek, hoping he looked firm rather than petulantly angry. "What the hell is going on?"

For a moment, neither Spock nor Sarek seemed willing to explain, in spite of what they had said a moment ago. Then, without word or warning, Sarek crossed the room and halted before the window, gazing out into the stars. Spock, with a glance at his father, turned his passionless face to Kirk. "It seems your doctor was given my _katra_," he said.

Kirk noted the term _your doctor_ with irritation. As far as he and Spock had already come, they had run into a bit of a barrier when it came to Kirk's best friend. As well as Kirk got along with both, he still felt almost constantly in the middle of a crossfire between the two, and was never sure if by spending time with one he wasn't betraying the other. At this moment, he was sick of their petty rivalry and would put up with none of this crap. He nodded once, eyes narrowing. "Fine. _What the hell does that mean?_"

"Or rather, that of my older self," Spock said as if Kirk hadn't spoken. "The _katra_ is the essence, everything that is not of the body. It is customary for a Vulcan to transfer their _katra_ to another upon the moment of death, particularly when they are abroad. The Bearer of the _Katra_ is then obligated to return to Vulcan, to Mount Seleya, and give the _katra_ to the repository there."

"So it's…" Kirk struggled to swallow the information. It was impossible, so he spat it back out. "It's like a ghost? You're saying he's possessed by a ghost?"

Spock's eyes glinted. "It is not a ghost. It is the essence."

"Okay. Essence. The difference is...?" Were they for real?

Sarek interrupted, but did not turn from the window. "The comparison is not perfect, but neither is it completely inaccurate," he said. "The human concept of ghosts bears a striking resemblance, in some ways, to the Vulcan concept of the _katra_. The _katra_, like the mythological _ghost_, aches to find eternal peace. However, they remain fundamentally different. While the ghost is typically viewed as incorporeal, it remains nonetheless a physical presence. The _katra_ is an identity, but not precisely an entity. Rather than being a shadow of the Vulcan, it is his very soul, history, and knowledge. It cannot exist separately of a body or of the repository on Mount Seleya, and yet it lives forever."

"But it aches?" This was too confusing. Kirk was going to have his little Russian genius invent a brain vacuum after this. _Oi, my head._

Sarek went quiet. Kirk watched him closely, but the Vulcan only stared out the window, his back to the captain. After several beats of impenetrable silence, he spoke as if from a great distance. "One alive, one dead. Both in pain."

"Pain?" Kirk's brows lowered, creasing the skin between them. "Bones didn't say he was in pain." His heartbeat picked up as images of a tortured Bones, writhing in pain on a bed in Sickbay, flashed through his mind. Sarek couldn't mean that. "Or wait—you meant Spock's body and Spock's…essence? Both of _them_?"

"The body is simply that—a body," Spock replied neutrally for his father. "It is a shell. It feels nothing. Dr. McCoy is the bearer of a _katra_ seeking its peace on Mount Seleya. If he were a Vulcan, it would be simple for him to separate his own identity from that of the _katra_. Because he is not—"

Damn the Vulcan's arrogance. Kirk got the point, and Spock's over-explaining was only making this harder. "You mean McCoy thinks he's Spock? The ambassador, Spock?" Kirk resisted the urge to fold his arms, but his hands twitched at his sides.

"That would be an inaccurate assumption."

"Okay, so tell me what an _accurate_ assumption would be." _Please, Spock, quit making this difficult. I'm not the one you want to punish._

"Some would judge that Dr. McCoy _is_ the ambassador. He carries the living essence of the ambassador in his mind. A Vulcan Bearer would possess the capacity to keep the _katra_ from taking over."

Kirk's pounding heart was beginning to sink. "And Dr. McCoy can't do that."

"No. He cannot."

_Aching for eternal peace. Poor Bones. _Kirk fought to keep his face from changing, but he felt his own Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "What'll happen to him?"

"The _katra_ will continue for as long as the body lasts."

"Not the _katra_. Bones."

Spock raised an eyebrow, but before he could reply, Sarek turned and spoke. "If Dr. McCoy cannot manufacture an objectivity to shield his mind—and of any of your crew, I suspect he is one of the least capable of this—then he will deteriorate rapidly. It will not take long. Human Bearers have been known to succumb within hours of receiving the _katra_."

"Succumb to what?"

"They die, Captain."

Kirk's heart leapt into his mouth. _Bones? Die? _For an instant, he forgot how to breathe. Then, he burst forth with, "Die? Are you kidding me? From what?"

"The _katra_ is capable of rejecting a host in the same way as a body can turn against a transplanted organ, bringing a severe shock to the nervous system."

Kirk puffed out the air in his lungs in a frustrated, truncated sigh. "Scientifically. What _physically happens?_"

Sarek's face softened. "Brain death."

"Yeah, but from what?"

Sarek raised an eyebrow, an older twin of his son. "This has been a subject of much controversy for generations. Not every Vulcan even believes the _katra_ exists."

_You don't know_, Kirk thought acidly, tightening his jaw. _Damned Vulcan, just say you don't know. _ "But you know this'll kill him. Dr. McCoy."

Spock spoke again. "There is no certainty."

"You just said," Kirk said, mustering as much patience as he had left, "that Ambassador Spock's ghost or essence or _whatever_ can only find rest on Mount Mount. Trouble is, Mount Mount doesn't exist. Vulcan doesn't exist."

Spock and Sarek exchanged sharp glances, both Vulcans tensing almost imperceptibly. Kirk immediately regretted his insensitive phrasing, but before he could apologize, Sarek spoke. "Mount Seleya was a place," he said evenly. "There will be others. But first, our people must have a home. We must have another Vulcan. Then, there will be another Mount Seleya, another home for the _katra_ of those who have passed on, and Ambassador Spock can be laid to rest—body and soul."

"That could take months," Kirk argued.

"Then Dr. McCoy will adapt or die," Spock said far too calmly.

The Vulcan's calm was more infuriating to Kirk than his unfeeling statement. "And you don't give a big enough damn to do something about it?"

"'Damn' has nothing to do with it. There is nothing that can be done. You must accept what is happening."

"Why are _you_ accepting it?" Was Spock being this dismissive on purpose? Vulcans could do mind-bending things Kirk didn't even understand. With that, his brain seized on an idea. "Can't…can't one of you take it from him? If Vulcans are so much better at it, why don't you do it?"

Sarek shook his head. "I am afraid it is not so simple, Captain. To transfer a _katra_ from a living body to a repository is far easier than transferring it from a living body to a living body. The ritual has not been performed in so long that most Vulcans believe it to be legend. Most importantly, it would present as much a risk to Dr. McCoy as the wait—perhaps more, as the High Council lacks experience in the ritual."

"So you're saying the only option is to find a colony for the refugees—in the next few hours?"

"That time frame is, shall we say, pessimistic," said Spock. "Not every host experiences rejection. Dr. McCoy seems to be taking things quite well. If he does not reject all sanity and kill himself, or if his body does not experience belated rejection, he may last considerably longer before his nervous system collapses."

Kirk gnashed his teeth helplessly. Suicide. Great. He'd have to put Bones on suicide watch now. Bones. On suicide watch. "Okay. That would mean giving up on the whole idea of taking back the colony from the Romulans and finding somewhere new for the refugees. Which might've been possible a few days ago, when the ambassador was still around to tell us if he had a plan B."

"In a manner of speaking, the ambassador—" Spock stopped suddenly, eyebrow raising sharply as if he was intrigued by his own thought.

"—is still around," Kirk finished, feeling the light bulb go off over his own head. It was suddenly easier to breathe. "He's in Bones' head. Bones would know if he had a plan B. Spock, you're brilliant."

Spock inclined his head at the compliment. "But I must remind you, Captain," he said, "that Dr. McCoy has limited control over what is happening to him. To involuntarily recall the ambassador's memories is one matter, but—"

"But it's his only chance," Kirk broke in. "You can work with him, can't you? What if you accessed the thing in his head?"

"That is provided the doctor will allow me to mind-meld with him," Spock pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "Even then, accessing the _katra_ would be inadvisable. It could cause further damage."

"But you can help him." Kirk did not phrase that as a question. He was not ready to accept 'no' as an answer.

There was a beat of silence. "I can," Spock replied. Maybe Kirk was imagining it, but he saw the commander's lips tighten in unpleasant anticipation. "If he is willing to cooperate."

"If we explain—" Kirk cut himself off. Death wasn't always a motivator for Bones McCoy. There were, in fact, things his obstinate friend would rather die than do. Like participate in a Vulcan mind meld. "Yeah, I don't see it happening. Does he have to cooperate?"

Spock stiffened visibly. "A forced mind-meld is highly immoral and can produce the same psychological effects in humans as forced sexual activity."

"Okay, that's out," Kirk said immediately with a slight helpless widening of his eyes. _Mind-rape. Wonderful. Gotta remember not to use that term in front of Bones. _"We'll see what happens. In the meantime, what do we expect? More of the same?"

Sarek gave a frown, a nod, and a lift of his slanted eyebrows for emphasis. "More of the same. At times, he will be better. At other times, he will be worse. It will be vital for him to rest as much as possible."

"Yyyyeah," Kirk said with a dazed chuckle. "I'll be sure to tell him." He could imagine Bones, railing against the pair of security guards dragging him back into his quarters for the zillionth time, screaming, _There's people dying, Jim! They need me! Let me go, dammit! I'm a doctor! I have to emphasize my own competence to make up for my inherent sense of helplessness in the face of death! MY PATIENTS NEED ME, JIM! DAMMIT, DAMMIT, I LOVE THE WORD DAMMIT!_

"Jim?"

"Yes, Spock?"

"Why are you smiling?"

Kirk forced the corners of his mouth to cooperate. "Never mind."

Not that Spock could let something like that go. "Considering the situation with Dr. McCoy and the ambassador," continued the damnable Vulcan, "I believe mirth to be an inappropriate reaction."

"Forget it, Spock."

"That would be difficult."

"Not literally, just…don't bring it up again."

"Aye, Captain." Spock's face was even more neutral than before, if possible. Kirk had the distinct impression that the Vulcan was making fun of him. "In regards to the doctor?"

Kirk blew out his breath. He already had a bad taste in his mouth from what was to come. "I'll talk to him first," he said. While he was not a master of tact, Spock was even worse. "He's my friend. I can explain it to him."

Spock hesitated, then spoke a little more slowly, as if uncertain he wanted to add to Kirk's suggestion. "Perhaps I should come with you. I can explain the nature of the doctor's state."

"He can come to you if he has questions," Kirk provided, "but I'd like to talk to him myself first. This'll be a lot for him."

"It is already a lot for him," said Sarek, breaking his own silence. "It may be easier to have someone there who can fully explain."

"Let me remind you, Captain," Spock added, "the less stress this places on the doctor, the better chance there is of retrieving the ambassador's _katra_ before he succumbs."

Kirk glanced sharply at his first officer. "Let _me_ remind _you,_ Commander," he said softly but firmly, the tone of voice he often found to be the most commanding, "that our priority is Dr. McCoy. If it comes between the ambassador's ghost and the doctor, we get the doctor the hell out of there."

"Of course," Spock said with a nod, "it is logical to give the living priority over the dead, but it will not come to a choice between them. They will both live, or they will both die. There is no saving one or the other."

Kirk wasn't convinced Spock was particularly concerned with logic in a case that involved his future self's essence and a man who, despite his Vulcan control, he clearly didn't like. In fact, Spock didn't seem at all eager to confront said man, probably because McCoy knew a few more things about the Vulcan than Spock was comfortable with. He wondered if Spock knew Bones had had access to his very detailed medical history for months now. "Let me talk to him first. You can come in later, if you want, but I want to deliver the news. He trusts me."

"You seem confident."

"That's a nicer way of putting it than you're used to. Dismissed."

* * *

When the doors to Sickbay hissed open, Kirk blinked to find it was no longer a hellhouse. Doctors and nurses went about their tasks with a degree of calm, even if one nurse had a bruise blossoming on his chin. The only patient lay subdued on a bed, eyes closed, head tilted away from Kirk. _My god, Bones. You're not even fighting._ The sight almost made Kirk step right back out of the medical bay to gather himself again. _They must have sedated him. That's all. He didn't give up, he's just sedated._ He glanced up as one of the nurses—the brave, broad one that had been punched in the jaw—approached him with a grim look on his face.

"Captain," he said with a respectful nod.

"Is he awake?" Kirk asked, voice catching slightly. He cleared his throat.

The nurse nodded. "Come on over," he said with a slight warning tone to his voice.

Kirk followed the nurse to McCoy's bedside. To his relief, the doctor's face had regained color, and the sheen of sweat over his skin had dried halfway. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was too quick for him to be asleep. The monitor embedded in the wall over McCoy's head showed the man's vitals, and there was a constant, steady, but unusually quick beep to signify his heart rate. Kirk wet his lips. "Bones?"

McCoy's eyelids fluttered open, and his somewhat glassy eyes latched onto the captain like cobras. He tensed suddenly, starting without rising. "Jim!" he hissed. "You gotta help me. You gotta save me from my own staff. These idiots don't know a leukocyte from Luke Skywalker."

Kirk smiled wryly. _Back to his old self, at least._ "It's okay, Bones. They won't kill you."

"You say that, but I know the little gremlins got their eyes on me. Have from day one."

Kirk glanced up at a nurse. "He's got his sense of humor back."

The nurse gave him a dry look that Kirk read as _Sense of humor?_ "We gave him an anti-psychotic. I suspect a sudden-onset personality disorder, but the doctor—who you put in charge of his own medical care, sir—won't diagnose himself."

"If I had a personality disorder, I'd know it!" McCoy spat. "Damn fool. Doesn't fit under any personality disorder."

Kirk shrugged helplessly. "You could consider it a personality disorder. When you have more than one, you know." He circled his temple rapidly with his index finger, the universal sign for _cuckoo_. "Personality disorder."

McCoy blinked, then his eyes nearly popped out of his head. "What?"

Kirk now tapped his temple with his finger. "Up here, Bones. Ever heard of a crazy thing called a _katra?_"

"Buncha Vulcan voodoo. They taught it to us at the Academy in the Cultural Diversity course. Mentioned it'd be a complication in dealing with Vulcan hospice patients, them wanting someone there all the time to put a little ghost in a box."

"Not a box. Your head."

"You gotta be...wait. My head? What the hell are you tryin' a' say, Jim?" McCoy's accent thickened as he grew more upset. He struggled to raise himself up on his elbows.

Kirk placed a hand on his shoulder, not actually applying pressure and only implying the act of pressing his friend back into the bed. "Spock and Sarek agree that when the ambassador died, he stuck his _katra_ into you. Which sounds...dirty. Really dirty. In fact, don't ever say it that way. Never gonna put it that way again. But basically, you have his soul. In your head."

McCoy shoved Kirk's hand away. "I get it, you little weasel," he snarled, struggling to sit up. Suddenly, he looked like someone had hit him with a cement block. His eyes widened and unfocused, and he slumped back against the bed. "Whoa."

Kirk glanced up in alarm, but the nurse shook his head. "It's the other dose kicking in," he explained.

"The _other dose?_"

"He was really bad, sir."

Kirk looked back down at the doctor, who looked like he was swimming in the thin sheet covering him. Sarek wouldn't like this. Hell, Kirk didn't like it. The fact that McCoy was reacting this badly likely meant the _katra_ was rejecting its host. Kirk tried to swallow the lump forming in his throat. Why would that happen, since Spock had chosen McCoy, specifically? "Bones?"

"Hm?" grunted the doctor.

"You okay?"

McCoy nodded, staring in the general direction of the ceiling. "Pretty good."

His accent was almost nonexistent, a sure sign that he was calm. Kirk offered a half-smile and squeezed his shoulder, trying not to show his anxiety. "You're gonna be okay. Now. Whaddyou remember about the last time you saw Spock?"

"Damn Vulcan tried to hack into my brain."

"No, the ambassador. Spock-of-the-future." Kirk assumed having the ambassador in his head would make McCoy aware of the situation.

"Oh." McCoy blinked at the ceiling. "Oh. That Spock. So it is..."

"Yep. That Spock. What do you remember, Bones?"

The doctor closed his eyes. There was a long moment of silence, and Kirk nearly stood up and left, thinking his friend had fallen asleep. Then McCoy's hand lifted, as though floating on its own, and brushed Kirk's nose. Kirk resisted the urge to start back and let the doctor grope his face to his heart's content. At last, McCoy broke his silence.

"I remember him...doing this."

"Rubbing his hand all over my face?"

"No, you little parasite. This." McCoy arranged his fingers gingerly on Kirk's face, crudely imitating a Vulcan mind meld. "Funny thing is, I remember doing this before. I mean, I remember him doing it. To...to me. Before. Except...we were older. I was old." A degree of wonderment trickled into the doctor's voice, then he relaxed. His hand fell back to his side, as though the effort of holding it up was too great. "But it happened a long time ago."

"What do you remember?"

"He was gonna kill himself. I can't...I can't let him kill himself!" McCoy started up suddenly, eyes wide. The heart monitor sped up. Kirk quickly grasped his shoulders and forced him to ease back onto the bed.

"Bones. Spock. Is not. Going. To kill himself."

McCoy went limp against his pillow, breathing hard. The hand that had been on Kirk's face now flattened against the doctor's sternum, sliding up to the base of his throat. "He did, Jim," whispered Bones. "I can feel him dying."

The heart monitor was not slowing. Kirk stared at the doctor in horror. _Feel him dying? Kill himself? My god, Bones, do you hear what you're saying?_ "Bones. Cool it. Did the ambassador--"

McCoy cut him off with a sloppy wave of his hand. "He wasn't..." The doctor's eyes drifted off, and his voice lowered to an eerily familiar tone. "It was long before I became Ambassador. The ship was in danger. I had no choice. Both Mr. Scott and the doctor attempted to stop me. I admit the doctor was not my first choice, but I trusted him with my life. It was logical that I could trust him with my _katra_. Now I believe I made the right choice. The only person I trust more is you, Jim, but you were not there until it was too late. The doctor was the right choice. The logical choice." McCoy's eyes raised, narrowed, solemn, relaxed, but with no contempt. It was the same look the ambassador had given Kirk from time to time, when he talked of times past. Kirk barely had time to register it when it disappeared, and McCoy's eyelids shut. The beeping of the heart monitor slowed to an even, steady pace. After a moment, a snore emitted from the doctor.

Kirk bowed his spinning head for a moment, trying to stand up under everything he'd been handed today. _Ghosts and the living dead. Welcome to Starfleet. _"I thought you gave him a double dose," Kirk said to the nurse. When he glanced up, the nurse was staring down at the doctor like he had just seen a marshmallow dancing on his chin.

"Um...clearly it doesn't suppress all his symptoms," stammered the nurse.

If Kirk had had any doubt before, this was enough to shatter it. _He's not dealing with symptoms. He's dealing with a person he can't get out of his head._ "Well, he's not psychotic. What do you have for multiple personalities?"

"For D.I.D.? Lexorin, but we'll have to wait for the other meds to leave his system."

"Put him on that and see if it helps. And make him choose a replacement, dammit, even if you have to hold me hostage to get him to do it."

The nurse grimaced. "Aye, sir."


	5. Chapter 5

Kirk was not a particularly domestic person, but tonight, his table had candles on it. No-nonsense white wax candles with industrial stainless steel candle holders and a tablecloth in a masculine shade of blue. He was setting down the last platter of the traditional Earth man-bonding fare—seasoned steaks, spiced home fries, rolls, and a moderately elaborate salad. The meal had been well-considered, even taking the cultural trend of Vulcan vegetarianism into account by adding a generous amount of sliced almonds to the salad for protein. He knew for a fact that Bones preferred his steaks well-done to avoid food poisoning. Altogether, the table was both welcoming (for Bones) and formal (for Spock).

This had better earn him points.

Spock arrived first, and seemed to hesitate as he entered, frowning slightly at the table. "Jim, when you issued the invitation for me to dine with you tonight, I assumed we would be discussing the results of today's diplomacy as captain and first officer. I did not expect a third place setting."

"That's right," Kirk said distractedly, fishing for napkins in a cupboard. Captain Pike had, in essence, dragged him to the diplomatic conference with the Romulans that afternoon. _It'll be good for you, Jim. You'll get to see how this stuff works, Jim. Screw you, Admiral._

"I can only assume the doctor will be joining us, as his life is inexorably caught up in the current affair."

"Yeah, speaking of that," Kirk grunted, extracting a fistful of disposable napkins and closing the cabinet, "I've been telling him about what's going on in little doses. It's a lot for him to take."

Spock raised an eyebrow.

Kirk sighed. "Don't—don't raise your eyebrow, Spock. Here." He tossed him the napkins. "Do something else."

Spock caught the napkins and stiffly began to place them under the silverware. "What information have you given the doctor?" he asked neutrally.

"Pretty much everything--"

The door hissed open and Kirk clamped his mouth shut. McCoy stood just inside the doorway, looking skeptically not at the table, but at the Vulcan folding the napkins impeccably and tucking them under the silverware with great focus. Far greater focus, in fact, than he had had before the doctor came in.

"Come on in, Bones," Kirk said nonchalantly.

McCoy approached the table and seated himself with a wary look in Kirk's direction that said, _You little bastard, you owe me after this._

Even when they were settled, Spock had a distinct disinclination to look at the doctor. He navigated his way around the food with occasional brief flickers of his eyes toward the bearer of his future self's katra, as though making sure McCoy wasn't experiencing a mindless demonic rage. McCoy attacked his steak with a fury he normally reserved for arguing with Spock, sopping up the juices with a roll and remaining quiet. Kirk had to break the silence himself, launching into the dreaded topic he invited them to dinner to discuss.

"As you know," he said in a tone he called _informal captain_ in his head, "Admiral Pike requested I join the diplomatic conference with Romulus today." He bit into a buttered roll.

Spock put down his fork, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, folded it on his lap, and gave Kirk his attention. McCoy rolled his eyes almost imperceptibly.

"Yeah, you can probably guess how it went," Kirk said half-apologetically. "The Federation's not sure if it's willing to go to war with Romulus over Omicron 4. On the one hand, we could stand up for ourselves, but on the other hand, we could maintain good relations with Romulus. Or rather, less-bad relations with Romulus. The Romulans, in the meantime, are calling our bluff and refusing to budge until we make them."

"They're testing us," McCoy said suddenly, looking up from his plate. "They'll stay where they are as long as we're indecisive and bully us until we fight back."

"I agree with Dr. McCoy," said Spock. "They may be issuing this as a challenge, and if we stand against them, we may actually gain their respect."

"Exactly!" McCoy said fervently. "That's how they always--" He stopped suddenly.

That gave Kirk pause. He cast a dubious glance at McCoy. "Bones?"

The table fell silent. McCoy heaved a sigh. "Yes, that was the ambassador." He put down his fork and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I thought the Lexorin was helping," Kirk said, concerned.

"It is," McCoy muttered, "but it's a medication for patients with dissociative identity disorder. I don't have dissociative identity disorder, I have a damn _Vulcan_."

Spock stabbed through a raw mushroom with unnecessary force.

"Dr. Chapel's taking sickbay, I hear," Kirk said casually, trying to dispel a little tension. "Is she--"

"Single? Please don't bring your oversized libido around my sickbay, Jim."

Well, it was worth a try. Kirk cleared his throat. "So, uh, back to the original topic." He met McCoy's eyes directly, then Spock's. "Until diplomatic talks go somewhere, Starfleet has issued a command that all ships are to stay the hell out of the Omicron system, and I believe those are their exact words."

"Logically," intoned Spock. "Anyone going into the Omicron system is most likely to be destroyed by Romulans."

"Why couldn't it be the Klingons?" McCoy grumbled. "Romulans are too damn smart."

"That question is irrelevant," Spock replied. "Regardless of the species you prefer, the threat is Romulan, and this news places a great deal of responsibility on your shoulders, doctor."

"I know!" snapped McCoy, half-rising out of his chair. "I'm supposed to figure out if the ambassador had a plan B. Are you going to tell me how to go about this, or am I expected to flounder around on my own?"

"I can help you," Spock said slowly, "but it would involve a mind meld."

McCoy sat back down in his chair, glaring at Spock. "I'll flounder."

Kirk traced his lips with the tip of his tongue, considering his next words. "Bones. You might want to consider it. I'm pretty sure I've filled my quota of defying orders and getting away with it."

"One wonders," murmured Spock, drizzling a little more balsamic vinegar onto his plate of salad, "if there was ever a time when you could defy orders and not get a medal for it."

Marvel of marvels, a small smile crept briefly onto McCoy's face before dissipating.

Kirk sat back in relief. "Hilarious, Spock," he said in mock indignation. "You're the one who designed a test no one could pass."

"You're the one who beat it," McCoy muttered.

"The situation is complex, and one Starfleet is unlikely to believe," Spock pointed out. "Even if they did believe Dr. McCoy is a host to a Vulcan _katra_, it would be unwise of them to risk hundreds of lives to save the doctor's."

There was a breathless pause, and Kirk could have sworn he felt his own heart stop.

"WHAT?"

McCoy's fork clattered onto his plate. Kirk's mouth dropped open, too late to silence the Vulcan. Spock glanced up at McCoy as though reading him. The doctor's face was swiftly losing color, his eyes shattering like mirrors, staring vacantly into space as though beyond the current reality was a future he did not want to see.

"I take it," Spock said lowly, "that the potential for death was among the things you had yet to reveal to Dr. McCoy."

In truth, Kirk had not planned to tell Bones at all. Death was not an outcome his friend had any real control over, so it didn't seem like one he needed to worry about. That, at least, was his rationale, being unable to bear giving his friend that news on top of all the other things he was dealing with. Heated shame crept over his face, and he quickly tried to fabricate an excuse, but his mouth could only produce voiceless stammering.

"Yeah," McCoy said breathlessly. "It might've been good to know, Jim. H-how--?"

"Neural shock, so to speak," said Spock. "The human mind was not designed to be host to a katra, and the shutdown of the nervous system is inevitable. It is only a matter of time."

Kirk didn't want to look at McCoy, but he was unable to look away. The hollowness in Bones' eyes, the futile bobbing of his adam's apple as he attempted to swallow the news, the way the blood slowly began to creep back into his face—too much, until the veins in his temples stood out and the doctor looked ready to explode.

And he did.

"DAMMIT, JIM!" McCoy roared, rocketing to his feet and slamming a hand against the table. "Why the HELL did I find out this way?"

"Look, I was going to tell you," Kirk lied, standing to look his friend in the eye. "Th--"

"THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU?" snarled McCoy.

"The captain was looking out for your emotional well-being," Spock said calmly, rising to his feet. "Death is a subject most humans find to be deeply disturbing, and your situation is precarious enough. You need to remain calm."

"CALM?" McCoy was practically screaming, his face now almost purple. "HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO BE CALM? AND DON'T TALK TO ME LIKE I'M A CHILD, DAMMIT! If it were you--"

"It is not me," said Spock.

"Shut the hell up and let me talk!"

"I see no reason."

"Spock," Kirk said in warning.

"Don't mind him, Jim," McCoy said poisonously. "There's not an empathetic bone in his body."

"I'm pretty sure humans and Vulcans alike are a little uncertain about--"

"Fear of death," Spock interrupted, "is nothing more than a survival instinct. It can be ignored when nothing can be done, but in the case of the doctor--"

"Do you know why you're not afraid to die, Spock?" McCoy blurted out as though the words were being torn from him."You're more afraid of living. Each day you stay alive is just one more day you might slip and let your human half peek out." His words had a strange flatness, as though he were quoting someone at a very high volume. "That's it, isn't it? Insecurity! Why, you wouldn't know what to do with a genuine, warm, decent feeling!"

Suddenly the color drained from McCoy's face, and he sat down hard in his chair, bending over his plate, hands spreading over the tabletop. Kirk immediately started to his feet, shoving aside the china platters of steak and potatoes with a porcelain "clink" and gripping his friend's arm.

"You okay, Bones?" he asked softly.

"You should be more careful of your blood pressure, Doctor," Spock murmured, placing a hand on the back of McCoy's chair.

"Don't try to act like you give a damn about me," McCoy snarled without looking up, "or anyone else. And you," he added acidly, snapping his arm out of Kirk's grip and standing quickly, "get your hands off me."

"Bones--" Kirk said in alarm, but the doctor was already stumbling for the door, clutching his stomach. McCoy practically fell against the touch-pad to open it, then disappeared into the hallway.

* * *

Spock did not intend to run into the doctor later that night, but he was not surprised to see McCoy in the mess hall, sitting at the bar with his head in his hands. The Vulcan halted just inside the door as the doctor briefly glanced his way, then continued to blankly stare at the bar. Spock considered the repercussions of drinking while host to a katra, but had no time to form any conclusions before someone cleared his throat behind him. The Vulcan muttered a brief apology before stepping out of the way of the door. When he looked again, the bartender had brought the doctor a stout glass with roughly an inch of liquor standing in it. McCoy mumbled his gratitude, picked up the glass, and took a mouthful. He had only half-swallowed when his eyes flew open and he coughed hard, spewing whiskey over the bar.

"Dammit, Fent--!" Cough. "You tryin' a' poison—" more hacking, a gasp, cough. "What the hell is this?" The bartender reached around and slapped him on the back, looking concerned. "Just Kentucky bourbon." "The hell it is." Cough. Spock heard himself speak up. "Doctor, I believe I can explain." McCoy squinted at him and coughed again. "Explain what?" Spock approached the doctor. "You are experiencing a psychosomatic reaction. Vulcans do not consume alcohol." "That's—" The doctor stopped and stared into his glass. After a moment, he took a deep breath. "Fantastic. Explains why I threw up the steak." He shook his head roughly as if to clear it through sheer physical force, then hissed out his breath and took another swig of the whiskey. His reaction this time was much calmer, though he still grimaced as he swallowed. The bartender cast a confused but incurious look at Spock before beginning to wipe off the bar. Spock glanced at the empty bar stool beside McCoy. "Do you mind if I join you, doctor?" he asked. McCoy gave a sharp laugh. "You already have, you damn Vulcan. I can't get you outta my head." He took another swallow of whiskey. Spock raised an eyebrow sharply. "Perhaps you should try another medication." Another laugh, this one more akin to a sharp exhalation. "No point. I mean, it's better. I'm not acting crazy. Well, not as crazy. But I still get confused about which part of my brain belongs to who. Hell, I can't even eat meat." "There are many ways to nourish yourself which do not involve animal flesh," Spock pointed out. "Augh, it's not just that." McCoy took two swallows of whiskey, then set the glass back down and signaled for more. He did not seem to be forthcoming with more information.

Spock took the lack of protest to mean he was permitted to sit with the doctor, so he sat—stiffly, willing himself to at least appear comfortable and casual. All the while, his human side screamed for him to get out. _Why am I doing this? It is not required that I be his friend simply because the other Spock chose him, out of necessity, as a vessel._ It was the Vulcan side that knew the answer, having deduced that his human side had a sense of grotesque fascination, self-preservation, and...

_No. I will not be obligated to suffer a sense of guilt when this was clearly not my decision._

But it was his decision—well over a hundred years in the future, and just over a week ago.

_That was another Spock. I did not choose for him._

Why would he even consider choosing this tired, impossible man, hunched over a glass of whiskey and smelling like sweat?

"Bartender," Spock said suddenly, half-surprising himself, "I'll have a glass." It wasn't that he intended to drink—he just intended to have a reason to stay.

McCoy gave him a sidelong glance. "I thought Vulcans don't drink."

Spock inclined his head to acknowledge the truth in his statement. "Not normally."

"Trying something new, or just trying to get away?"

"It is logical to add to one's overall life experience by expanding it," Spock replied neutrally as the bartender brought him his drink. _I did not lie—I implied._

A glimmer of respect appeared in the doctor's eyes. "Well." He raised his glass. "To new experiences, then?"

Spock raised his own glass. "Indeed."

McCoy drained his glass and motioned sharply to the barkeeper. "Fenton, could you...?"

The barkeeper poured whiskey into the doctor's glass with both eyebrows raised. "Want me to leave it?"

"God bless you, man," McCoy sighed, clasping the bottle in one hand as Fenton set it down. "We'll see if I can still drink a Vulcan under the table, psychosomatic reaction or no."

Spock hastily set his glass down. "Perhaps you should avoid drinking too much, doctor. There is no telling how the katra will react to your mind being in a state of--"

"The katra is just fine," the doctor retorted, rolling his eyes, speaking halfway into his glass. "Besides, you said I'm supposed to avoid stress. Well, I'm avoiding stress. Now, if you'll shut the hell up, I'll be good to go."

Spock wondered again why he was doing this. He raised his glass to his nose and smelled it delicately. It was hastily deposited back on the bar, never to be brought that close to his face again. The doctor drank in silence, staring into space and occasionally glancing at Spock. The Vulcan felt more uncomfortable each time McCoy looked at him, wishing he could know what the human was thinking without a serious and unethical violation of privacy. He tried not to think about what McCoy may have learned about him since obtaining his katra, and how that knowledge could be used against him. Would the doctor truly be so petty or cruel as to do so? There was very little in Spock's background that even his human half found in any way embarrassing, but what about the ambassador's past? What about his own future? Having seen a lifetime of Spock, whereas Spock hadn't even seen three decades of Spock, it was possible that McCoy knew Spock better than Spock knew himself.

_He does not have that kind of access to the katra. Perhaps he sees only glimpses, or occasional floods—I wonder what it is like—but either way, he will need my help to even learn what the ambassador knew of the situation with Omicron 4._

"My ex-wife," McCoy said suddenly, "is one of those women who can convince anyone of anything. She got the judge to completely revoke my custody over my girl. I don't even know what she said to make it happen, but the judge believed her."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I was not aware you had a child."

"I don't, legally. Viola won't let me see her. She took everything else, too, even what she couldn't use. My practice, for example. After that, I used to say she took the whole damn planet from me." McCoy glanced briefly at Spock, then back into his glass. "Now I think before I say that."

Spock swirled the liquor around in his glass but did not drink. There was no reason to reply immediately, so he did not. Even if there were, he could think of nothing to say. Did the doctor actually believe he understood Spock's pain? Perhaps he did, in a detached way, as the spirit inside him touched his mind. But he had only the memory of a memory, while Spock could easily place himself back on his failing planet, then back on that transporter pad, staring into the empty space where his mother was supposed to be. "Have you ever lost a parent, Doctor?" he asked suddenly, eyes searching McCoy's face.

McCoy's expressions were easy to read. There was a silent, breathless beat of hesitation. The glazed, drunken look in his eyes became glassy and distant. That was all Spock needed to see to gather an affirmative answer, but then the doctor turned his face away, and the Vulcan understood that he had asked the question too soon.

"I apologize," he said immediately.

The doctor didn't respond. After a moment's pause, he looked into his half-full glass again, then brought it to his lips and emptied it quickly. Slamming it down onto the bar, he refilled it with the bottle by his right hand. Spock immediately wondered if he shouldn't have offered his own glass to the doctor, then realized how absurd it was to encourage the man to drink more. Instead, he quietly ordered a non-alcoholic cocktail while McCoy drowned himself in his new glass. The cocktail was brought, the doctor did not notice, and the conversation began anew.

"It must be weird," said McCoy, his words slurring slightly, "me carrying your soul. Tell ya the truth, I wouldn't mind it so much if I knew why the hell you did it. You said you did it before."

Spock hesitated mid-sip, then set the cocktail down. "I...did?"

"Yeah." McCoy waved a hand. "Or the other you said it. And that's one thing..." The doctor blinked slowly. "I actually remember it happening. Dying, I mean. Entrusting everything to the doc—dammit. Him entrusting it to me. Dammit." The doctor rested his forehead against the bar with a heavy _thunk_.

Spock's face did not change. He was very good at not making his face change when he was utterly stunned. _I trusted him? Why?_ Then a far more urgent question pressed that one from his mind. _How did I die? _It seemed strange to have met his future self after his future self's death—as strange as it was to learn that he had entrusted everything that was himself to the same man twice. The laser-like focus of his eyes on the drunk bent over the bar caused halos to appear around everything he saw. What about his relationship with this man was going to change? _Perhaps very little. All that must happen is two situations which make it necessary. Even the doctor does not know why it happened, and he is in the best position to know._

_The doctor remembers my death. He remembers experiencing my death—as myself._

Logically, whatever situation caused him to die in the future was not likely to happen again. However, if Jim Kirk could read his mind at this very moment, he might describe the sensation Spock felt as someone walking over his grave.

Lost in thought, he almost failed to notice that the doctor had stopped breathing.

"Call a medical team!" Spock barked, shooting to his feet. _The lexorin. I should not have allowed him to drink._ He swept the doctor into his arms and lay him on the floor, tilting his head back to open his airway. The mess hall froze, then he heard someone using a communication panel. Simply changing McCoy's position had not caused him to breathe again. Spock's fingers felt for, and found, a weak pulse. Tense fingers opened the doctor's mouth, and he locked his own to it, breathing into the man's lungs once, twice, before he felt someone seize his shoulder.

"I'm a doctor," said a blonde woman as she knelt beside him. "What happened?"

"He was drinking while on lexorin," Spock said evenly, fighting the panic that rested lightly on his shoulders, a hair's breadth away from breaking through, as it always was in desperate situations. He breathed for McCoy again. The doctor's lips were cold.

"Stupid man should have known better," she muttered, checking McCoy's vitals. "Chapel."

"Spock," the Vulcan answered, giving her a brief nod before bending over McCoy again.

Chapel grabbed his shoulder again. "Don't hyperventilate yourself. Let me."

Spock nodded, letting her clamp her mouth over the doctor's and breathe into him. The door to the mess hall hissed open. The Vulcan couldn't look away as a team of EMT's gave McCoy a hypospray, then lifted him. He followed as they placed him on a gurney and wheeled him away, jogging after them, unable to lose sight of the doctor. It was completely irrational—something he avoided at all costs—but it felt, horribly and unshakably, like he was the one dying on the gurney.

_The cold was as bitter as ice. He had no idea how he was still standing and the doctor was not. When a mysterious hooded figure appeared and led them to shelter, logic dictated that he question the identity of this new person, but he did not. There was no time. The doctor would die if they did not find shelter from the snow._

_Inside, it was warmer than was comfortable. He all but carried McCoy to the bed, lay him down, and with a tenderness he would never have allowed the doctor to see when he was awake, pulled a thick, furry animal hide over him, covering him from his feet to his chin. He noted with vague interest that their savior had drawn back her hood and shown her face, her miraculous face and wealth of hair the color of the whitest sand of Vulcan. She did not matter. His friend was barely alive, and somehow, he could not bear to tear himself away from the bedside or look away from his face._

_He was...worried._

_Later, he would fall in love with the woman and nearly forsake his duties for her. For the first time in his life, the doctor was his logic, his unerring drive to do what made sense. Ever after, he had the feeling that they had saved each others' lives that day._


	6. Chapter 6

The door to sickbay hissed open. Kirk started in and narrowly halted before slamming into his first officer.

"Is he--" Kirk asked breathlessly.

"He is doing well, Jim," Spock said calmly.

"DAMMIT, SPOCK!" roared Kirk, his pent-up rage bursting out at the first available target. "You know his condition! Even I know not to give him alcohol!"

"Dammit, Jim," a voice growled ironically, "quit talking like I'm not here."

Kirk ducked around Spock to see Bones McCoy sitting on a bed and yanking his boots on. All things considered, the man looked like he was doing fairly well. Only the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his fatigue. Kirk gnashed his teeth and stormed up to the doctor.

"You," he snapped, "had better have an explanation for why you were drinking on your medication. Were you _trying_ to kill yours--?"

"Right, Jim," McCoy snarled back. "I'm attempting suicide to cope with my fear of death. Get the Vulcan to tell you how logical that is."

Kirk bit back a furious reply. "What's your excuse, McCoy?"

The way the doctor slowly straightened his spine, his face turning shades of angry, then embarrassed, told Kirk he hadn't missed the significance of being called by his last name. "I...didn't know."

Kirk frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, McCoy exploded. "Don't even _think_ about giving me that look! I don't know how else to explain it! I'm not saying I didn't know—I'm a doctor, dammit, I should've remembered, but I didn't know. It's not even that I forgot, I was--"

"Calm down, Bones," Kirk said evenly, his anger beginning to wane slowly.

McCoy heaved a massive sigh and leaned forward, elbows on knees and hands rubbing the back of his neck. "It's like I was in a part of my brain that didn't know. Now I just feel..._unbelievably_ stupid."

Well, at least he felt horrible about it. Kirk was willing to settle for that. He sat on the bed by McCoy's, facing his friend and clasping his hands loosely in front of him with his elbows on his knees. "You feeling okay?"

McCoy glanced up at him. "No. I told you I feel stupid."

Kirk couldn't resist a smile. "I mean otherwise."

Both of McCoy's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "I guess. I just wish I'd been spared the details of what happened after I passed out. Not that I'm complaining, but I didn't _need_ to know I was given mouth-to-mouth by a Vulcan." He cast a brief glare at Spock.

Spock spoke up. "It was necessary to prevent brain da--"

"I know, ya damn..." McCoy waved a hand at him futilely "...elf. I said I wasn't complaining."

"You are welcome," Spock said curtly.

"Now that the formalities are over with," McCoy grumbled at Kirk, "I still don't want to talk to you. Now get out of here before I'm well enough to bust your ass."

Kirk patted McCoy's shoulder and gave him a tight smile even as the doctor tore away from him. Bones couldn't really be serious about holding a grudge after this, could he? "Yeah, well, it was about time I started begging your forgiveness again. Have I mentioned I'm sorry?"

"I highly doubt," said Spock, "that the doctor is capable of busting anyone's ass in his current condition."

"I wouldn't tempt fate, Spock," Kirk said in warning. "He's been threatening to slip me a drug that'll make me impotent for weeks almost since I've known him."

"I'm not kidding, Jim," growled McCoy

Kirk clicked his teeth together, suddenly nervous. "Come on, Bones. I scared the hell outta you, you scared the hell outta me. That means we're even. What do you want me to do?"

"Go to hell." McCoy pushed to his feet.

Spock suddenly stiffened as though keeping himself from dashing forward. "Would you like me to help you back to your quarters, Doctor?"

"Dammit, Spock," hissed McCoy, "I'm carrying your soul, not your child."

Kirk, for an instant, had the pleasure of seeing a slight, helpless widening of Spock's eyes at the unwanted imagery. He cleared his dry throat. "You almost died, Bones. He's just trying to--"

"I didn't almost die," retorted McCoy. "My heart almost stopped. In case you haven't heard, that's not quite dying nowadays. Three hundred years ago, this would've been a crisis, but it's the twenty-fourth century, and I'm _fine_."

Kirk paused, hesitant to speak. "Bones?"

"Twenty-_third_," growled McCoy, flushing red. "It's the twenty-third century, and you know what I meant, so leave me the hell alone. Thank you, Christine." Muttering under his breath, he walked briskly out of the medical bay. "Help me back to my quarters. Almost died, my ass."

"My first name," Spock murmured, "is not Dammit."

"It's his favorite word," Kirk said with a shrug, trying to ignore his fluttering heart. "It makes everything he says sound important."

"Very little of what he says is important enough to say."

Kirk glanced at him, reading a lingering sense of relief in his friend. "He scared the bejeezus out of you, didn't he?"

Spock hesitated, tilting his head as though in thought. Kirk sighed heavily, glancing around at all the medical staff members who were going about their business and trying not to listen. Dr. Chapel had actually stopped scrolling through information on her console and had one ear cocked toward them. Kirk was not crazy about spreading around McCoy's real condition. If even some Vulcans didn't believe in the existence of the katra, it would be impossible to force a slew of humans to believe it, and he might be called out as being as crazy as the doctor. As it stood, McCoy's future as chief medical officer was already questionable, since his current mental state, if it became commonly known, could jeopardize the trust his patients had in him. There was also the extreme privacy in which all such Vulcan affairs were held. Chapel went back to reading information from her console, and Kirk gave Spock's arm a quick pat.

"You don't have to answer," he said, remaining aware of the volume of his voice. "You wanna talk about it somewhere else?"

"Not with you," Spock said softly.

* * *

"Spock, you rejected all irrationality when you chose the Vulcan way." Sarek was immobile as a marble statue, but his eyes were tall pillars of deep wisdom and keen insight, peeling back the layers of Spock's stoicism and leaving him bare. "However, it seems you are as incapable of objectivity in this matter as the doctor."

Spock met his father's eyes sharply. "I am fully capable of manufacturing an objectivity," he said slightly more loudly than necessary. "The fact that I acted quickly to help save the doctor's life does not speak against me. My actions were logical."

"But your feelings are not," said Sarek.

"I am not allowing my emotions to control my judgment," Spock interjected. "All of my actions have been--"

"Spock." Sarek gave him a look he was famous for—the sort that nearly made Spock swallow his own tongue. "Your actions may have been logical, but was that why you made them?"

Spock raised his chin. It was a rather childish way to attempt an appearance of dignity, but it was his first reaction. There was no answer he could give his father, as he could neither lie nor say for certain. His eyes flicked to the floor, briefly recalling the image of a limp McCoy being lifted onto a gurney, the very image of Spock himself dying.

_Do you know why you're not afraid to die, Spock? You're more afraid of living._

Again, he could not lie, and he could not say for certain. Perhaps the doctor did know him better than he knew himself.

Sarek inclined his head. "Your emotions defy logic, Spock, but so does the situation. If you were able to define a clear, logical path from here..." He hesitated. "If you found a logical, objective way to think of this arrangement, you would be my better. There is a clear way to act—in the best interests of both katra and host—but the way you feel cannot be dictated to you, not even by yourself."

"I understand," Spock said softly. "That is why I spend much of the time trying to think of something else."

"Don't," said Sarek. "It is not through willful ignorance that enlightenment is found."

Spock closed his eyes and exhaled. No, it was not the Vulcan way, but... "Where should I begin?"

"The beginning," Sarek answered neutrally. "With the ambassador's death."

"With my death," Spock said softly.

Sarek raised one eyebrow sharply. "The ambassador had a life that will presumably be very different from your own, now that the timeline has changed. Does his death still disturb you?"

"Yes," Spock said without hesitation, as much as he wished it were not so. "It...it made me question where I should be. The arrangement he and I had was that I would remain in Starfleet while he performed my duties establishing a colony for the Vulcan people."

"His duties are nearly done," Sarek intoned sagely. "It is imperative for the doctor to learn from the katra what must be done next."

"He refuses," Spock said, trying not to appear as tense as he felt. "He demands to know what he must do, but when he is told, he will not cooperate. I can do nothing."

"Then perhaps I can," Sarek said stiffly. "We will speak of it later. After the ambassador's death, his katra was given to Dr. McCoy."

"Almost anyone would have been better," Spock said immediately. "The doctor is overemotional, cantankerous, and completely lacking in respect or self-control." He briefly met his father's eyes before glancing away quickly. "He is annoying."

"That is the extent of your feelings on the subject?" Sarek did not look like he believed that for a moment.

"No," admitted Spock. "The doctor said...something strange." He hesitated, his lips beginning his next sentence several times before he actually had words for it. "The ambassador died once before, though I do not know how or for how long. During that time, he entrusted his katra to the Dr. McCoy of his time."

"It may be a coincidence," said Sarek.

Spock paused, the image of McCoy shouting across the table at him flashing before his eyes. _That's it, isn't it? Insecurity! Why, you wouldn't know what to do with a genuine, warm, decent feeling!_ "I do not know. It may be that in our time the doctor was simply the only familiar face to a dying man, but I cannot explain the first incident." He raised his eyes to his father. "Why do you insist on this exercise? I am clearly not the one in need of help."

"You came to me," Sarek reminded him. "Why, if you are not in need of help?"

Unable to say anything to that, Spock merely bowed his head.

Sarek sank into a chair. "What has happened since the doctor received the katra to make you uncomfortable?"

Spock hesitated, eyeing his father suspiciously. "My discomfort has never been an issue until now, Father."

There was a long pause as Sarek's eyes flicked slightly downward, piercing through space until he seemed to find an answer. "I have long urged you to embrace your Vulcan heritage and abandon emotion in favor of logic. Perhaps I was wrong to do so, as it denies your human heritage." He met Spock's eyes. "Our ways were created to cope with our savage instincts and reach a higher plane of thinking. We reach for one extreme to avoid the other. Balance comes more easily to humans, which may work to your advantage. Besides," he added with a note of regret, "you should never be ashamed of anything you inherited from your mother."

It was so strange, hearing such things from his father when he could still remember the shame and disappointment rolling from him after his son rejected the offer to be admitted into the Vulcan Science Academy. Spock took a deep breath, knowing how rare the current display of emotion was, and not wanting to damage his father's pride with too much acknowledgment. "Dr. McCoy lost a parent. I do not know which, or how."

Sarek raised his chin slightly. "Why should this bring you discomfort?"

"Because he would not tell me this himself," Spock replied softly, "yet he already knows things about me that I would never tell him."

"Do you wish your shame to be his?"

Spock glanced at him. "I do not entertain petulance, Father. He is privilege to secrets that Vulcans never share with outsiders—secrets he takes for granted, and does not respect."

"Have you spoken to him of this?"

"I have not. Why should I listen to what he has to say on the matter of Pon Farr, or of my marriage to T'Pring?"

Sarek raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. "It may be that he is more respectful than you think, having seen it from a Vulcan perspective."

"It is not merely a matter of respect," Spock argued. "It is very likely that he can remember the events himself. He knows what it is to experience things I have not yet experienced myself. It is…" His cheeks heated before he could smooth out his emotions. "It is an invasion of privacy."

"You assume much," Sarek said, face even. "How do you know he has learned all this, if you refuse to speak with him?"

Spock raised his chin, but had nothing to say to that. Perhaps he had assumed the worst of Dr. McCoy and caused himself unnecessary anxiety. The thought did not soothe his human blood, which burned in embarrassment at his immaturity. The Vulcan way was truly the most logical to take, as it would have spared him this ordeal.

"You have said that the doctor is annoying, disrespectful, ungrateful, and an invader of your privacy," Sarek went on. "Are there any other excuses not to speak with him?"

Spock glanced at him sharply. "I have spoken with him."

"But you did not use the opportunity to put your concerns to rest," Sarek pointed out.

"He was drunk."

"Therefore, he was all the more likely to respond in honesty." Sarek cocked his head. "Spock, if you do not wish to approach him, you do not have to. You can ask the captain to do so, since he and the doctor are close friends. You can also ask me."

Spock barely managed to halt a frown. "You? Forgive me, but I doubt he is more likely to speak with you than he is with me."

"Why should he not?" Sarek, if it was possible, straightened his posture even more. "When he sees you, he likely sees both a rival and a distorted mirror. It is possible that he will be more at ease with me if a part of him remembers me as a father."

Spock felt himself tense. As little as he liked sharing his memories with McCoy, he liked sharing his family even less. Nevertheless, he could not deny the sense in his father's words. "That is…logical."

Sarek watched him for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. His robes swayed around his ankles as he approached Spock, then, with as great a physical intimacy as Vulcans were likely to give even to family, he placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "Remember that this is as involuntary for the doctor as it is for you."

"I remember," Spock said quietly. _But it changes nothing._

Sarek's eyes softened, and Spock could tell that he had heard the thought through his touch. "Then should I speak with him?"

Spock stared long and hard into his father's eyes. After a moment, Sarek gave a little nod and departed.

* * *

McCoy had no professional reason to be on the bridge. Usually when he was there it was because he had nothing else to do and couldn't stand to hear things secondhand. That, of course, was when there were things actually happening, not when the bridge was vacated, all of its usual inhabitants having nothing to do besides wait for the word that they were free to depart. McCoy sat in the captain's chair, squinting lazily at the viewscreen and trying to picture a horde of Klingon ships. Maybe the Kobayashi Maru would have been even more impossible if it had had Romulan ships instead.

"Red alert," he muttered.

A door hissed open. McCoy jumped to his feet sheepishly, clasping his hands behind his back. Ambassador Sarek stepped through the door, staring at him stoically.

McCoy cleared his throat. "Just uh, trying to see what all the fuss is about."

Sarek nodded to the chair. "You found it to your liking?"

"God no," McCoy breathed. "Neither of us did. That's the one thing Spock and I have in common—we'll never understand Jim's infatuation with that thing."

Sarek nodded softly. "It is not in Spock's nature to seek such power. He is more content to serve. I suspect the same of you."

"Well." McCoy suddenly felt rather embarrassed. Being around Sarek was very odd. It wasn't a foreign sense of familiarity, but a foreign sense of trust and respect that gave him the feeling of being slightly drugged. He slammed walls against it, reminding himself that Sarek was a Vulcan and Spock's father to boot, and that he knew practically nothing about him. Well, not nothing.

Sarek approached him, regal and dignified, his power and control over his own movements making McCoy feel slightly intimidated. "If you find no comfort in this game, why are you here?"

Discomfort be damned—this man could provide him with answers, couldn't he? He held back for a moment, scanning the bridge briefly just to make sure no part of it drew him in particular, then hissed out a tiny sigh. "It wants something. Wants to be somewhere. The damned frustrating thing is that I don't know where it wants to be." He looked back at Sarek, whose face had not changed. "It's the lexorin," he said urgently. "If I weren't on the drugs, I'd be able to tell what it wants, but right now everything's muffled, like it's trying to talk to me through a wall. So I've been wandering around the ship, going places Spock might go. Thought the bridge would be it, but..." He shrugged and looked around the bridge again, eyes lingering this time on Spock's console.

"If you will come with me, Doctor," intoned Sarek, "I believe I may know what it wants."

* * *

The door to the ship's morgue slid open. Every knotted muscle in McCoy's body seemed to unwind when his eyes landed on the cryo-chamber resting at one end of the room. Swallowing, he walked briskly to it and sat on the floor, lightly running his fingertips over the titanium lid. Most who died in space were buried there, but Ambassador Spock's instructions had been different—he had wanted to be buried on Vulcan soil, wherever that was. The katra wanted it as well, to rest with Spock's body beneath the shifting sands. Part of him wanted to rip the lid from the chamber preserving the body, to have as little as possible between him and his other body, but both he and the katra knew that was irrational and...illogical.

"The katra is drawn to the body it lived in," Sarek said quietly as he stood reverently over the cryo-chamber. "This will always be where it feels the greatest peace, until it is laid to rest."

McCoy nodded, unable to tear his eyes from the cryo-chamber. At last, he allowed his eyes to trail up the lid, finding the titanium crystal window in the box that revealed the ambassador's lifeless, colorless face. "My god," he said in breathless wonder, "when did we become so old?"

He heard the shifting of feet and the scrape of a chair against the floor. Sarek set the chair opposite McCoy and sat in it, looking down at Spock's face. "It must be very strange for you," he said quietly, "to feel so much pain for someone you hardly knew."

McCoy afforded him a brief glance. "I wouldn't call it pain right now. It feels...restless. Like I can't breathe, or like I'm hyperventilating, or both at the same time." He swallowed.

"You seem to be doing well," Sarek said politely.

"Yeah, well, I'd rather be doing better," McCoy said with more of a growl than he intended. He found it difficult to look at Sarek for too long, like the Vulcan ambassador's eyes would burn him if he did.

Sarek did not reply.

McCoy ran his fingers over the cryo-chamber again, leaning up to stare into Spock's face. He had the strangest sensation that he was looking in a fun-house mirror that was showing him an image from his own funeral, and looked away again, then up at Sarek. Watching that serene face, he suddenly felt years younger and two feet shorter. "He didn't want to disappoint you," he said suddenly without knowing why. Heat flared up in his face, and he wished he could take the insensitive statement back.

Sarek raised an eyebrow sharply. "I am not disappointed in him. It is true that we did not speak to each other for several years after he declined the offer to study at the Vulcan Science Academy, but things...changed after Vulcan was destroyed."

"After…" McCoy stopped before he could say _Mother__._ His next instinct was to say, of all things, _Mrs. Sarek_, although he knew _Amanda _or _Mrs. Grayson_ to be more appropriate. It still sounded too familiar, since no one had actually told him the name of Spock's mother.

Sarek seemed to understand his meaning and gave a slight nod, his eyes going distant. "I pushed him to become more like myself, only to find that he is the only part of her I have left. The most…valued, as well."

None of this was making McCoy any more comfortable. He didn't feel it was any of his business how close Spock was with his father, and wished he had never brought it up.

Again, the Vulcan seemed to guess McCoy's thoughts. "I only wanted to address your doubts, Doctor. It is not my desire to make you uncomfortable."

McCoy's eyes flicked to and from Sarek's face. "Didn't know being comfortable in a situation like this was gonna be a priority."

"I have had many dealings with humans."

The doctor was glad Sarek didn't continue on that train of thought. _Manipulating creatures of comfort. I doubt Vulcans are any different._ He sighed. "Okay, listen. I appreciate your help, but I'd actually like to be alone right now."

"Just a moment, Doctor," Sarek said patiently. "I wish to make a request of you."

Something in McCoy wanted to wriggle his way out of any request any Vulcan made from here on out, since the last one—_Remember—_was one he was still in the middle of fulfilling. Still, he may as well hear the man out. "Yeah, what is it?"

"I want you to mind-meld with Spock."

The walls came up again, and McCoy found himself shaking his head violently. "No."

"There is nothing to be afraid of, Doctor," Sarek said calmly.

More walls slammed over the ones already in place. "I already got too many damn Vulcans in my head, and I don't want it there, and I don't want any more. I don't want it."

_I don't want it. It's too cold._

An image of Kirk flashed in front of his eyes. Jim was limp and lifeless, and his hands—Spock's hands—were tightened around his bruised throat.

Sarek's stoic expression did not change. "Perhaps you would be more comfortable, then, if I mind-melded with you."

"No!" McCoy rocketed to his feet, ready to bolt from the room. _I killed Jim. Why did I kill Jim? He can't know I killed Jim!_

Sarek made no move to stop him. "Then we will not. However, I should explain to you how mind-melding is different from what you are currently experiencing."

The image of a lifeless Jim faded. McCoy didn't sit. He glanced at the door, then back at the Vulcan. "Yeah?"

Sarek gave him a slight nod as though acknowledging the fact that he had suppressed his instincts to flee. "You are experiencing two separate identities. A mind-meld is the opposite—it is the merging of identities. Minds touch, minds become one, but neither is dominant. Your inhibitions are lowered, but if there is something you truly wish to hide, we will not attempt to force it from you. You will have as much control as you wish to have, though you may not have the knowledge or training that Spock and I have. We would limit all questions to those related to the late ambassador and his knowledge of the situation with Omicron IV."

As the ambassador spoke, McCoy found himself sinking back to the floor, increasingly absorbed. "You'd be asking questions?"

Sarek raised an eyebrow. "You did not expect us to tear the knowledge from the fabric of your mind, did you?"

"Something like that."

The ambassador shook his head. "One of us would mind-meld with you. The purpose of the mind-meld is to assist you in lowering the barriers your mind has placed against the ambassador's memories and accessing specific ones at will. The Vulcan's mental control becomes yours. You will be asked questions, and you will be able to answer them freely."

"That doesn't sound so bad." And it didn't. McCoy felt a sense of familiarity as Sarek spoke of the process. He swallowed. "Ah…how long do I have, do you think?"

"I do not understand."

McCoy cleared his throat. "Spock said this could kill me. How long…?"

"There is no way to tell. You seem to be doing well today, but that is no indication of how you will feel tomorrow. Have you noticed any times when it seems to be worse?"

McCoy sighed. "Just when I start panicking about it, but panicking makes everything worse."

Sarek was quiet for a moment before looking keenly at McCoy, and the doctor again had the feeling that he was much, much shorter than he was. "It has been known for a katra to reject its host," he said, his voice an even monotone. "It has also been known for a host to reject the katra."

_I don't want it!_

McCoy felt his own throat working well before he could speak. "It's not my damn fault. I never asked for it."

"No, you did not," Sarek acknowledged. "Nevertheless, you have it. Have you searched for the reason for this?"

McCoy hesitated, recalling images he had lived in his sleep and in waking dreams. "I think—I _think—_we might've been friends, in the future. Spock and I. Well, not friends, exactly. At least I can't think of another word for it, but we couldn't stand each other, and I can see why now. There's nothing more frustrating than seeing how damn annoying you can be from someone else's perspective."

"Yet you were friends."

"Not friends," McCoy amended quickly, though he had the feeling that it was his own resistance rather than the katra's memories that told him so. "I don't know if there was ever a time we willingly spent time together without Jim being there. But I saved his life—dammit, I saved—_he_ saved _my_ life a lot. And he—I—damn." He put his head in his hands, head buzzing. "It's confusing. I see it all like I'm him. I see me—the older me—arguing with him about which one of us is going to sacrifice themselves for the other. It's mostly things like that, like the ambassador is trying to show me what we're supposed to be."

"Is something wrong with that?"

McCoy's hands came down hard on the cryo-chamber with a resounding thud. "Of course there is, dammit! This isn't the ambassador's world, and I'm not that Leonard. That Leonard is…" He shook his head, trying to pin down what was different about the future McCoy. "He's…changed."

"How?"

"Smiling, laughing, joking around, relaxing like he's on some damn vacation. I can't see myself like that in ten years, twenty years, any time."

Sarek's eyebrows raised fractionally. "Perhaps he is happier."

"God, I hope so." McCoy had a sharp pang of memory as he wondered if his father, like Kirk's, had been alive in the ambassador's timeline. He traced a seam in the cryo-chamber with his thumbnail. Did this Spock and his Kirk ever know about David McCoy, or was that Leonard as private as he was?

"It may be," Sarek said softly, "that he has simply had more time to accept the misfortunes which happened relatively recently for you."

A spike of panic stabbed from McCoy's heart to his brain. "What do you know about that?"

Sarek raised a hand passively. "I know nothing of consequence. I have only heard secondhand that things have been difficult for you."

The fear shrank back and settled again into his stomach. McCoy glanced at the door again. "Are we about done here?"

"Allow me to say one more thing, Doctor," said Sarek. "It is rare for an outsider to trust a Vulcan enough to consent to a mind-meld. That trust is something we do not compromise except in direst need."

Direst need? So they _would_ force it against his will? McCoy slowly rose to his feet, ready to bolt out the door. "Define 'direst need,'" he said through gritted teeth, trying to restrain the panic in his gut.

Sarek hesitated. "If lives were in danger."

"Lives?" McCoy's skin began to crawl, and his heart pounded in his ears. "If I didn't consent, would you do it anyway to save the katra?"

Sarek looked him dead in the eyes. "No. To save _you_."

McCoy's knees gave way, landing him back on the floor. Images ran through his head, from his own imagination, of himself struggling and screaming in protest as he was wrestled down to the floor and held as Spock's fingers arranged themselves around his face. "Then I don't…I don't have a choice either way." _You bastard._

"Neither of us wish to force it upon you," Sarek said softly. "It is, to use a human ethical term, a grey area—a technical violation of morals for a greater moral purpose."

"Damn your greater moral purpose. You're not the one making a sacrifice for it." McCoy almost continued, but the rushing in his ears drowned out the words he was going to say. He folded his arms over the cryo-chamber and buried his face in them, going hot and cold all at once. _I don't want this. I don't want this thing in my head._

He raised his head, suddenly feeling like he was outside of his own body, watching himself. "I do not want this," he announced. "You take it." Before Sarek could stop him, he rose to his knees, reached out, and jammed his fingers around one side of the Vulcan's face.

"Interesting," Sarek murmured without making a move to stop him. "Do you believe you know how to give it to me?"

"I've done it twice before," said McCoy. He could remember the feeling, even, like breathing out into a vacuum and not breathing in again.

Sarek gently took McCoy's wrist in his hand and pried his fingers off his face. "No. You have not." His eyebrows lowered slightly. "Why do you reject the katra, Doctor?"

McCoy blinked, suddenly realizing he was staring into Sarek's eyes with his wrist in the Vulcan's firm grip. He quickly snatched his hand away. "It's not mine," he said bitterly. "Does there need to be another reason? It doesn't belong. I can't figure out where it ends and I begin. It's driving me insane."

"We can help you," Sarek said calmly, "but only if you allow it. Will you allow it, Doctor?"

"I…" McCoy sat again on the floor, feeling backed into a corner. Was he really going to be forced to let these people root through his brain for answers?

"We will do whatever it takes—" Sarek began.

"I want Jim Kirk there," McCoy said suddenly, blurting the idea out as soon as it came to mind. "I want him to be able to stop you if you do something out of line. If he's there, I'll do it." Under his breath, because Sarek deserved it, he muttered, "Vulcan jackass."


	7. Chapter 7

"This feels like a duel," Kirk muttered as he walked down the hall with Spock.

Spock glanced at him. "From human history?"

"Right. In a duel, each participant had a second who came along for…well, moral support, for all I know."

"This is not an act of combat, Jim."

Kirk stopped outside McCoy's room. "Yeah, tell Bones that."

Spock cocked his head. "Thus far I have failed to understand his hostility."

Kirk shook his head. "It's not hostility, it's defensiveness. Bones has some trust issues and a, uh, very sharp sense of self-preservation."

Spock nodded. "I understand he has been through a divorce and the death of a parent. Would this be related?"

Kirk paused, unsure if he really heard what he heard. His eyes ticked up to Spock, watching him suspiciously. "How did you know about his father, Spock?"

Spock raised his eyebrows. "The subject came up. I asked him if he lost a parent, and I surmised from his reaction that he had."

Kirk narrowed his eyes. What kind of fire did Spock think he was playing with? His friend appeared in desperate need of advice. "Okay. Spock. Trust me when I tell you you don't want to pursue that. Don't even bring it up. He won't even tell _me_ what happened."

"I did not plan to mention it," Spock said quickly.

"Good. Then don't."

* * *

If nothing else, the meds staved off the headache. McCoy sank back further into his chair while the murmurs between Spock and Sarek droned on, willing the pounding migraine to ease up, since it was probably about to get a lot worse. He had skipped his last dose of lexorin at Sarek's suggestion, to ensure nothing interfered with the mind-meld. The end table by his elbow was the bearer of a hypospray and two refills, ready for him when this was all over. He felt a comforting jostle as a familiar hand hit the back of his shoulder. Jim Kirk clasped his shoulder and squatted in front of him, meeting his eyes. "Hey. Who am I talking to?"

"Me." McCoy rubbed a temple.

Kirk gave a sharp nod. "How's it going?"

Those wide-open, serious eyes were burning him. McCoy glanced away. "I don't know if it's better or worse without the meds," he admitted quietly, eyes grazing over Spock as he spoke softly to his father. "On the one hand, it feels like I'm losing myself. On the other hand, I'm getting tired of fighting something that's gonna win anyway."

Kirk squeezed his shoulder gently, offering a tightening of his lips that resembled a wan smile. "That's ridiculous. The only thing in the universe more stubborn than Spock is you."

"And you," added McCoy, "though I'll take that as a compliment." He hissed out his breath and braced himself. "Jim, about the little stunt you pulled."

Kirk's eyes, normally murals of varying emotions, evened out into a uniform expression of forced alertness. He was taking this seriously.

As much as Jim had matured, he still looked like a puppy dog sometimes. McCoy offered a wry almost-smile. "I know why you did it, and I appreciate the thought. You did the wrong thing, but..." There wasn't really anything to say after that. He released the rest of his breath.

Kirk gave a sharp nod, acknowledging the forgiveness. "Thanks. And uh." He made a sharp motion to the two Vulcans. "It's not that big a deal, the mind meld. It's kind of like watching a movie you can't look away from."

"Sounds like a ride in the park," muttered McCoy.

"Also, uh."

"What is it?"

Kirk's eyebrows settled low over his eyes. It was an intense _Captain Kirk_ look he got when he was dead serious about something important. "I want you to let Spock do it."

McCoy tensed. "Jim."

"I'm serious, Bones. He's being driven just as crazy as you are."

McCoy gave him a dubious look.

Kirk heaved a sigh. "Okay. Think about it this way: you really wouldn't be letting any more Vulcans into your head than are already there."

The reasoning was preposterous. "You can't be serious."

"I'm dead serious," Kirk said solemnly. "Not to mention if you get in each others' heads, maybe I won't have to mediate between you two every time one of you decides to be an ass."

The last sentence was delivered not with humor, but with a trace of resentment McCoy was not used to hearing from the captain. He looked so sincere, in fact, that McCoy could already feel himself caving. "Fine." _But because it's important to you, Jim, not Spock._

Kirk nodded once, then raised his voice. "I think we're ready over here, Spock."

McCoy nearly had a heart attack. The air felt too thick to breathe as Spock turned his face from his father, his sharp, dark eyes locking with McCoy's. The Vulcan commander did not move for half a second, then he walked briskly to McCoy, pulling a chair up to face him and sitting stiffly. McCoy tried to control his rapid breathing and the familiar nausea in his gut as panic pressed against the edges of his mind.

"Everything will be fine, Doctor," said Spock, almost reassuring.

To Spock's credit, maybe it was helpful to have a rational Vulcan in the face of his own irrational fears. McCoy's eyes slid closed, and he willed himself to calm down. Four years of psychotherapy, both as a student and as a patient, were not going to fail him now. His breathing began to even out an instant before he felt ten cool fingertips rest one at a time around both sides of his face.

"Relax," breathed Spock's voice.

_Count backwards from ten._ McCoy could remember the first time he was ever under general anesthesia, and how much trepidation there had been over being forced into sleep. When the drugs had hit his blood, he had found himself rapidly relaxing rather than spiraling into darkness. An instant later, he had been waking up.

"Our minds are merging."

He could feel it—a cold, impersonal touch, barely laced with juvenile nervousness. He almost pulled back, but the cold permeated, saturated his own thoughts. His heartbeat slowed as a stillness he had not known in years, if ever, smoothed over every anxiety. When he opened his eyes, the room had disappeared, and he floated in an endless glowing haze. Still he heard Spock's voice, this time as though it came from the expanse around him.

_What is our name?_

Our name—his and that of the disembodied voice in his mind, the sum, the whole. "Our name is Leonard," he replied, but that wasn't right. It felt like he had only told half the truth. He tried again. "Our name is Spock."

_Our name is Spock. Where is our body?_

"Our body is dead."

_Where are we?_

"Dr. McCoy."

_Why are we in Dr. McCoy?_

The haze around him shifted, and all around him, McCoy could see a kaleidoscope image of a Vulcan leaning over an unconscious human and touching his face.

"Remember."

Remember.

_Remember,_ whispered Spock. _Why us? Why the doctor?_

"It was logical." The images became an older Vulcan and a younger human, the Vulcan raising a bloody claw to the human's astonished face.

_The doctor was there when we needed him._

"We trust the doctor."

_We cannot stay here forever._

"The doctor will take us to Mount Seleya."

_Mount Seleya is gone. Where is there for us to go?_

"To Omicron IV. To the new Vulcan."

_That is impossible. Where else? Where can our people find a home?_

An explosion. Agony tearing through his body like fire.

"It is lost. Omicron IV is our only hope."

_Yes. It is._

"Of all the planets in the galaxy, so few are capable of sustaining life, and even fewer are unclaimed. Only one suited our purposes. Only one could become the new Vulcan."

_Only one._

"We are tired. We yearn to rest."

_Rest._

There was suddenly a flash of cold objectivity, like someone had thrown a bucket of water in his face. A different voice, neither Spock's nor McCoy's, spoke from the kaleidoscope around them.

_You maintain such distance even during a mind meld. Let me show you something._

The kaleidoscope shattered. Spock-McCoy sat quietly in an empty house, one neither had seen before, but the ambassador knew well. The console sitting on the desk across the room had been black for hours—not merely on standby, with the Starfleet crest standing proudly in the center of the screen, but completely turned off. Every form of communication in the house had been disabled at his request. Breathing deeply, he sought the place in his mind that was reserved for the times he needed blankness, nothingness, a void for all emotion to fall into. It had never been this difficult to find before.

The doorbell rang. Spock-McCoy ignored it.

The doorbell rang again. Spock-McCoy opened his eyes and stood slowly, stiffly, the pain of despair shooting to his fingertips. He walked to the door, gathered himself, and opened it.

It was Dr. McCoy.

"Hi," McCoy said softly.

Spock-McCoy examined him. He was not aging well, the lines on his face deeper than the last time he had seen him, and his hair thinner and whiter than ever. More than that, Spock-McCoy saw the swollen redness around his eyes, and a mouth tightened with barely-suppressed grief. "Is this urgent, Doctor?" Spock-McCoy asked him, pretending not to know why the doctor had come.

McCoy nodded toward the house. "You gonna let me in, Spock?" he asked hoarsely.

Spock-McCoy hesitated, but denying the doctor, considering everything they had been through, would have been an inexcusable breach of etiquette. He stepped aside and allowed the doctor to enter.

Once the door was closed, Spock-McCoy turned around to face his old friend before any uncomfortable small talk could begin. "Why are you here, Doctor?"

McCoy, who had begun to examine the collection of Vulcan artifacts arranged neatly around the house, looked sharply at him. "Do I need a court order to visit you now, Spock?"

"I have been busy. There has not been time for casual entertaining."

The fire-light in McCoy's eyes flared up. "Goddamnit, Spock! You've been unreachable for days. I had to hop a ship to Vulcan just to make sure you hadn't killed yourself!"

"Suicide is illo--"

"Don't you say it! You know as well as I do that logic doesn't have a damn thing to do with any part of this!"

Spock-McCoy stared into the doctor's angry face, wanting suddenly to be somewhere else, anywhere else. "Why have you come?"

"Because I'm your friend, Spock."

"If you have come seeking comfort, you have come to the wrong place."

"I know that! I came here to tell you I'm here if you need me, okay?"

"Why would I need you?"

"Spock!" McCoy looked at him incredulously. "Did you not hear, or have I gone completely insane? Jim _died_."

Spock-McCoy sank into a chair numbly, allowing the doctor's words to pass like wind over his head. "I heard, Doctor. If you believe I am in need of companionship, perhaps our years of service together have taught you nothing about me."

"I know you, Spock!" snarled McCoy, planting both hands on the arms of Spock's chair and leaning in. "We served together for almost thirty years. I carried you around in my _head_. Don't you dare tell me I don't know you, you pointy-eared son of a bitch!"

"Please keep a respectful distance, Doctor," Spock-McCoy said evenly.

McCoy did no such thing. "Not to mention I'm the only living thing in the universe that still gives a damn about how you feel. Hell, I might be the only real friend you've got left. Have you ever grieved in your life, Spock? Really _grieved_, not just feltgrief? It's a process you might not be familiar with."

"I do not need your help," Spock-McCoy said with greater emphasis, rising to his feet and forcing the doctor to step back. "I will complete the Path of Kolinahr."

There was a breathless beat of hesitation before McCoy's eyes widened. "Spock. That's not the answer."

Spock-McCoy raised both eyebrows. "It is the logical path to take, considering the situation."

"Considering the situation, it makes you a damn coward," growled McCoy. "Running from your grief instead of facing it. You should be ashamed."

"Why must you continue this attempt to force your human values on me?" Spock-McCoy asked, feeling the whirlwind of staved-off emotion grow closer.

McCoy gnashed his teeth. "Fine. Take the Path of Kolinahr and turn yourself into a passionless logic-vegetable. Just do it for the right reasons, not to escape what happened."

"My reasons are my own business, Doctor."

"Like hell they are, as long as I'm your friend."

"Go home, Doctor."

"Jim died, Spock." This time when McCoy said it, there was a sense of benign wonder, as though he was overwhelmed himself by the concept. "We need each other."

Spock-McCoy could not need him. Spock-McCoy could not need anyone, or it would mean giving in to the grief threatening to cripple him. He was not capable of breaking down in front of the doctor, no matter how many times they had saved each other, strengthened each other, sacrificed for each other. Above all, he could not accept that Kirk's death changed anything, for the life's work he had bled into following the Vulcan way would be lost beyond retrieval, and he would be crushed beneath its weight.

_Do you know why you're not afraid to die, Spock? You're more afraid of living._

Yes, the doctor did know him.

_We need each other._

"No," Spock-McCoy said softly. "_We_ do not."

Slowly, McCoy drew himself back, taking a deep breath. "You're right. After all these years, I don't know you at all. But I still know you better than you know yourself."

Then he walked away for years, rarely seen or spoken to until Spock attended his funeral.

_The older we become, the more aware we are of how little we understand._

The stilled, pale face in the coffin haunted his memories for the rest of his life.

_How many chances did we have to speak with him again? After the Path of Kolinahr, we did not care enough to do so. What we had with Jim and the doctor was beyond friendship or family, yet we purged ourselves of them both. It was too much to bear. It was the greatest mistake and the gravest offense we committed in our life._

The shock of sudden grief cracked the mirror in which he could see McCoy's still body. Through the vacuum of space in which Kirk's body floated, there came the thin, high-pitched shriek in his mind and the repeated internal cry of _No, no, no, no_, as though he could will away an existence from which Kirk had suddenly disappeared.

_Mother, Jim, Father, Leonard. We survived everyone we knew, one at a time. One at a time, we lost them all._

He stood on snow and ice and watched as the star that was his planet was erased from the sky. After years spent bowed in grief and solitude, he saw the face of Jim Kirk again. He saw Scotty, Uhura, Sulu, and Chekov. He saw McCoy, bitterer than he remembered him, but undeniably McCoy. He saw his own bloodied hand on the doctor's surprised face, breathed out, and did not breathe in again. The kaleidoscope around him showed every one of these images, every deep stab of grief and breath of hope, displayed as a host of deadly mirror-shards closing in.

_We asked ourself why we chose the doctor to host our katra. Perhaps it was our only way to tell him of our sorrow that we let our friendship end the way it did, but that is a friendship he never knew. The only way to make amends now is to ensure that it never happens, that the young ones understand that they will need each other when the grief becomes too much for them to bear._

Losing Jim had been the hardest thing he had ever been through, and he had chosen to endure it alone. In doing so, he had forced the doctor to endure it alone as well. After years of sacrifices made for each other, of suffering and growing closer with each step forward, it had been the gravest betrayal he could have made.

_Doctor, I am sorry._

_I am so sorry._

A single shard of the kaleidoscope fell, followed by two others, and more, until every image of grief rained like fallen stars around him, burying him, overwhelming him as he struggled to stay afloat. The flood closed over his head, and he was sure he would drown. He lashed, struggled, and with a mighty push of his mind, broke to the surface. Reality exploded into existence around him, and Spock gasped as though it was his first breath in years.

His heart pounded like a hammer in his chest. He struggled to catch his breath, to breathe at all, as he blinked residual images away from his eyes. His fingers were still crushing into McCoy's bloodless face, and he pried them off as the doctor fell back in his chair, breathing hard. Spock clenched both shaking hands at his sides, trying to compose himself, but looked up as someone grasped his shoulder.

Jim Kirk.

"Jim!" Spock blurted out before he could stop himself. He shot to his feet at exactly the same time as McCoy did. He paused, stopping himself before he could embarrass himself and glancing at the doctor. The doctor returned his glance at precisely the same instant. Spock held his gaze for a moment, and suddenly had the impression that he was seeing McCoy for the first time. He noticed the shape of his eyes, his posture, even the ever-so-slight frown lines around his mouth that had suddenly become familiar. He could see those lines deepening, being joined by other lines, deep creases of passion and a wisdom that was nothing like his own.

He could see the doctor lying in his coffin.

McCoy's eyes widened slightly, then his shaking hands grasped at the end table by his chair, causing the hypospray to skitter off the edge and onto the floor. He and Kirk both reached for it, but Spock made it there first, snapping up the hypo and setting it in the doctor's outstretched and shaking hand. McCoy jammed the hypo against his carotid artery harder than necessary and closed his eyes in blissful relief.

Kirk glanced uneasily at Spock, then patted McCoy's arm gently. "You okay?"

Spock sank shakily back into his chair, his knees too weak to hold him. McCoy followed suit, leaning back and opening his eyes to look at the captain. "I'm never doing that again," he said gruffly.

Sarek seemed to appear suddenly from the shadows, although Spock knew he only had that impression because he had all but forgotten his father was there. "What did you learn?"

_Far, far more than I wanted to know._ Spock took two more deep breaths to return his heartbeat to normal, unwilling to answer until he was fully composed.

McCoy was fitting another vial into the hypospray. When it clicked into place, he met Spock's eyes and offered it to him.

Spock stiffened, mildly insulted. "I do not need it."

The effect the words instantly had on both of them was startling even to Spock. Ordinarily, the doctor would merely shrug him off. Now, McCoy's eyes became two voids, widening as though unable to look away from something. Spock felt his throat tighten into a knot, and struggled to speak around it without plunging into the pit he could see opening before him. "But thank you," he said hoarsely.

McCoy nodded and quickly set the hypo back on the end table. Kirk awkwardly clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. "Spock?"

Spock glanced sharply up at Kirk. "There was no other plan. There is no other place for a colony. It is Omicron IV or it is nowhere." He stood, more solid on his feet this time. "Now if you will excuse me, captain, I would like to be alone."

Kirk gave a truncated nod, holding Spock in his eyes as though dropping him would break him. "You are dismissed."

Spock bowed his head briefly, then turned on his heel and left, willing the memories to stay behind.

They followed him to his room, cradled him in his bed, and in his sleep, he saw himself standing in the snow, with Kirk and McCoy lying dead at his feet while Vulcan was erased from the sky.

* * *

"After a couple questions, you got too quiet to hear, and then both of you stopped talking altogether. What happened, Bones?"

McCoy flattened his hand against Ambassador Spock's cryo-chamber, wishing he could be anywhere else without making the katra go into conniptions. "Nothing."

Silence fell between them, and McCoy was a nanometer away from asking Kirk to let him be alone before Kirk spoke up again. "We'll find a way to make this work."

McCoy looked at him incredulously. "How? I can't live like this forever. Even if I could, I'd have to be admitted to the Federation loony bin."

"Bones." When Jim Kirk said your name like it was a whole sentence, he meant business. "Ambassador Spock needs to be laid to rest on Vulcan soil. But what constitutes Vulcan soil?"

McCoy squinted at him, hoping he was going somewhere good with this.

Jim raised his eyebrows. "We can sneak the High Council onto Omicron IV--"

McCoy waved his hand rapidly to cut his friend off. "Hold it, hold it. You're not serious."

"I'm always serious." Kirk lightly punched the doctor's arm. "Like Spock said, when have I been able to defy orders and not get a medal for it?"

"It's not the medal I'm concerned about."


End file.
